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CLASSIC  SELECTIONS 


FROM  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 


ADAPTKD  TO  THB 


STUDY  OF  VOCAL  EXPRESSION. 


S.   S.  CURRY,  Ph.  D., 


OEAM    SCHOOL  OP  EXPRESSION;    ACTING  DAVIS   PROFESSOR   IN   ELOCUTION,   NKWTOI 

THEOLOGICAL   INSTITUTION;    FORMERLY  SNOW   I'ROFESSOB 

IN  ORATORY,  BOSTON   UNIVEBSITY. 


«)  1    8  2  9 

466SG 

BOSTON: 

THE  EXPRESSION   COMPANY, 
Pierce  Building,  Copley  Square. 


Oopyiigbt,  1888, 
By  S.  8.  OUURY. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 


r  I  iHE  principal  endeavor  in  making  this  collection  has  been  to 
-*-  select  such  extracts  as  will  be  best  adapted  to  develop  the 
essential  qualities  of  the  voice,  to  furnish  the  greatest  variety 
of  examples  for  the  illustration  of  the  various  steps  in  vocal 
{  expression,  and  at  the  same  time  to  secure  selections  from  the 
'  greatest  number  of  the  best  authors,  and  the  most  varied  forms 
of  literature. 

The  work  is  prepared  in  accordance  with  numerous  requests 
of  students,  who  are  teachers  in  various  schools  and  colleges ; 
as  requested,  the  selections  which  have  been  found  in  actual 
teaching  during  the  past  twelve  years,  to  be  best  adapted  to  de- 
velop the  powers  of  expression  in  mind  and  voice,  are  here  col- 
lected together  for  convenience  in  study  and  teaching. 

Among  the  chief  peculiarities  of  the  work  will  be  found  the 
(.number  of  lyrics,   the  variety  of  authors,  the  many  forms  of 
)  literature,  and  the  contrast  between  the  simplest  and  the  most 
diflScult  and  complex  selections  it  contains. 

The  short  extracts  from  page  11  to  page  78  have  been  chosen 
to  illustrate  some  of  the  elemental  vocal  steps  in  the  School  of 
Expression,  but  no  theory  is  given,  because  each  of  the  para- 
graphs serves  to  illustrate  several  steps  and  accomplish  different 
aims  as  occasion  and  the  needs  of  the  student  or  class  may 
require.  They  may  also  serve  to  illustrate  the  steps  of  any 
teacher  or  method.  The  elemental  steps  in  the  work  of  the 
school,  most  commonly  illustrated  by  these  paragraphs,  are  :  — 

I.  Attention.  II.  Spontaneity.  III.  Freedom  of  Tone.  IV.  Func- 
tion of  Imagination.  V.  Action  of  tlie  Mind  and  Breathing.  VI. 
Parity  of  Tone.    VII.  Mellowness  of  Tone.    VIII.  Openness  of  Tone. 


Vi  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

IX.  Logical  Instinct.  X.  Study  of  Conversation.  XI.  Inflection. 
XII.  Subordination.  XIII.  Support  of  Tone.  XIV.  Elasticity  of 
Tone  XV.  Control  of  Breath.  XVI.  Transitions.  XVII.  Contrast. 
XVIII.  Rhythm.  XIX.  Pause.  XX.  Attack.  XXI.  Movement.  XXIL 
Contrasts  in  Rhythm.  XXIII.  Melody.  XXIV.  Progressive  Tran- 
sition. XXV.  Contrasts  in  Melody.  XXVI.  Range.  XXVII., 
XXVIII.  Miscellaneous.  XXIX. -XXXII.  Resonance  of  Voice. 
XXXIII.,  XXXIV.  Tone  Color.  XXXV. -XXXVII.  Purposes  in 
Vocal  Expression. 

These  and  various  other  steps  illustrated  will  be  thoroughly 
explained  in  the  works  upon  Vocal  Expression,  Vocal  Training, 
and  Methods  of  Teaching  Expression  now  in  preparation. 

Special  acknowledgment  is  gratefully  made  to  the  author, 
Mr.  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  for  valuable  suggestions  and  permis- 
sion to  use  selections  from  his  works.  Acknowledgment  is  also 
due  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  for  permission  to  use  the 
selections  in  their  copyright  editions  of  the  works  of  Longfellow, 
Whittier,  Emerson,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  Celia  Thaxter ;  also  to 
Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  for  permission  to  use  extracts 
from  the  poems  of  T.  B.  Read.  Special  thanks  is  also  returned 
to  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.,  for  the  privilege  of  using  extracts 
from  Matthew  Arnold  and  Robert  Browning. 

S.  S.  C. 

Boston,  Mass. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Li&Ja9t,  Sarah  F.,  1805-1848. 
Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee .    •    .    342 

Addison,  Joseph,  1672-1719. 
Cato  on  Immortality     ....    195 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  1837 . 

Identity 432 

Alexander,  Mrs.  C.  F.,  182-. 
Burial  of  Moses,  The    ....    227 

Anon3rmoas. 

Cicely  and  the  Bears    ....  352 

L'Esperance 432 

Sir  Patrick  Spans 249 

Sweet  William's  Ghost      .     .     .  3SC 

Arnold,  Matthew,  1822-1888. 

Church  of  Brou,  The    ....      98 

Aytoun,  William  E.,  181.3-1865. 
The  Island  of  the  Scots     ...     311 

Bacon,  Francis,  1561-1626. 
Of  Studies 242 

Beddoes,  Thomas  L.,  1803-1849. 
The  Sailor's  Song 340 

Bible. 

The  Blind  Man  —  St.  John  .     .  292 

The  Voices 427 

Twenty-fourth  Psalm   ....  92 

Blake,  William,  1757-1828. 

Laughing  Song 371 

Branch,  Mary  Bolles. 

The  Petrified  Fern 81 

Browning,    Elizabeth    Barrett, 
1809-1861. 

Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May  .     .    388 

Browning,  Robert,  1812-1889. 

Abt  Vogler 444 

Among  the  Rocks 434 

Apparitions 442 

Confessions 442 

Hervd  Riel 184 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp     .  303 


Browning,  Robert.  —  Continued. 

Last  Hide  Together 385 

Lost  Leader 417 

Memorabilia 404 

One  Way  of  Love 442 

Prelude  to  Dramatic  Idyls     .     .  328 

Prospice 307 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 219 

Tale,  A 443 

The  Patriot 406 

Through  the  Metidja    ....  397 

Tray 327 

Woman's  Last  Word    ....  429 

Youth  and  Art 127 

Briin,  Frederike, 

Chamouni  at  Sunrise    ....  441 

Bryant,  Wm.  Cullen,  1794-1878. 

Song  of  Marion's  Men       .     .     .  384 

Thanatopsis 125 

To  a  Waterfowl 214 

Buchanan,  Robert,  1841  

The  Old  Politician 358 

Bulwer,  Edward  Geo.,  1803-1873. 

Richelieu's  Appeal 213 

Bulwer-Lytton  (Owen  Meredith), 
1831-1891. 

Aux  Italiens 418 

Burke,  Edmund,  1729-1797. 

Destruction  of  the  Carnatic    .     .  435 
Peroration    of    Opening   Speech 

against  Ha.'stings 112 

Peroration    of    Closing    Speech 

against  Hastings       ....  144 

Bums,  Robert,  1759-1796. 

Afton  Water 82 

Bruce's  Address 107 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that     .     .     .  201J 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo      .    .    .  Hi 

To  Mary  in  Heaven      ....  93 

Byrom,  John,  1691-1763. 

Three  Black  Crows,  The  .    .    .  104 


vlii 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


844 


Byron,  Lord,  1778-1824. 
Alpine  Scenery  .  .  , 
Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean 
Battle  of  Waterloo,  The 
To  Thomas  Moore    .     . 

Campbell,  Thomaa,  1777-1 
Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 
Ye  Mariners  of  England 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  1795-1881. 
Sincerity  in  Speech      , 
Victory  of  Truth      .     , 

Gary,  Alice,  1820-1871. 
Pictures  of  Memory 
The  Ferry  of  Gallaway 

Coleridge,  Samuel,  1772-1834 
Mont  Blanc  before  Sunrise 

Collins,  William,  1721-1756. 
Brave,  The      .     .     , 
Passions,  The      .    . 

Colman,  George,  1762-1836. 
Scene  from  "  The  Poor  Gentle- 
man " 

Cornwall,  Barry,  1790-1874. 
Hunter's  Song,  The      .... 
Sea,  The 


206 
341 
234 
135 

218 
89 

79 
117 

404 
409 

133 

260 
188 


368 

121 
80 


Curtis,  George  W.,  1824-1894. 

Patriotism 151 

De  Mille. 

The  American  Senator  in  Italy  .     320 

Demosthenes,  384-322  B.  C. 

On  the  Crown 421 

DeQuincey,  Thomas,  1785-1859. 

Murder  as  a  Fine  Art  ....  209 
Derzhaven,  1743-1816. 

Ood 148 

Dickens,  Charles,  1812-1870. 

Gabriel,  the  Contented  Lock- 
smith       84 

Nicholas  Nickleby  Leaving  the 
Yorkshire  School       ....     309 

The  Stage-Coach 332 

Dryden,  John,  1031-1701. 

Alexander's  Feast 229 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  1803-1882. 
Tho  (V.nroni  llynin      ....     431 

Each  imd  All 374 

The  Tilnioufle 209 


Everett,  Edward,  1794-1865. 

Death  of  Copernicus     ....     295 
Early  Dawn  and  Sunrise  ...    279 

Field,  Eugene. 

Little  Boy  Blue 438 

Night  and  Morning      ....    433 

Forest,  Neil. 
Mice  at  Play 366 

Francis,  Couvers,  1796-1863. 
Nature  and  God 232 

Goethe,  1749-1832. 
The  Erl-King 367 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  1728-1774. 

The  Village  Preacher   ....     343 
The  Village  Schoolmaster      .    .     819 

Gosse,  Edmund  William,    1849 


Return  of  the  Swallows 


433 


Gray,  Thomas,  1716-1771. 
Elegv  in  a  Country  Churchyard    296 
The  Baid 275 

Griffin,  Gerald,  1803-1840. 

Bridal  of  Malahide,  The    ...    228 
Hall,  Robert,  1764-1831. 

The  Bible 300 

Hawthorne,    Nathaniel,    1 804- 
1864. 
A  Rill  from  the  Town  Pump      .    272 

Heber,  Reginald,  1783-1826. 

Spring  Journey,  The    ....     198 

Hemans,  Felicia  D.,  1794-1835. 
Bernardo  Del  Carpio    ....     301 
Fall  of  D'Assas 141 

Henry,  Patrick,  1730-1799. 
America's  Duty  to  Resist 


Hogg,  James,  1' 
Lark,  The  . 


72-1835. 


Holcroft,  Thomas,  1745-1809. 
(iaffer  Grav 


Holmes,  Oliver  W.,  1809-1894, 

The  Boys    

The  Chambered  Nautilus  .     . 
Union  and  Liberty  .... 

Hood,  Thomas,  1798-1845. 
Bridge  of  Sii,'lis,  The    .     .     . 
Ode.  to  My  Infant  SoQ      .     . 


304 

105 

398 

263 
426 
351 

187 
416 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS. 


Horne,  Kiohard  Hengist,  1803- 
1884. 
The  Laurel  Seed 439 

Hunt,  Leigh,  1784-1859. 
Glove  and  the  Lions,  The      •    .    360 

Ingelow,  Jean,  about  1830 . 

Echo  and  the  Ferry       ....  355 

Higb  Tide,  The 152 

.     .  173 

.     .  364 


Longing  for  Home 
Singing  Lesson,  The 


94 


173 


362 


294 


Irving,  Washington,  1783-1859 
Voyage,  The • 

Jonson,  Ben,  1574-1637. 

Hymn  to  Diana  ...... 

Zeats,  John,  1796-1821. 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale    .... 
Ode  on  the  Poets 411 

Key,  Francis  Scott,  1779-1843 
The  Star-Spangled  Banner    . 

Kingsley,  Chaa.,  1819-1875. 

Sands  of  Dee 146 

The  Old,  Old  Song 372 

Lanier,  Sydney,  1842-1881. 

Palm  anfl  Pine,  from  Heine  .     .    432 

Linton,  William  James,  1812 . 

Be  Patient 373 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  1807-1882. 

Brooklet,  The 79 

Leap  of  Roushan  Beg  ....  407 
The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs  .  309 
Paul  Kevere's  Ride 439 

Macaulay,  Thomas  B.,  1800-1859. 

Horatius 196 

Nature  and  Rules 160 

Macdonald,  Geo.,  1824 .  • 

Owl  and  the  Bell,  The  ....  142 
Song 438 

Mackay,  Charles,  1814-1890. 

The  Inquiry 328 

Mahony,  Francis,  1805-1866. 

Bells  of  Shandon,  Tlie  ....     114 

Marlowe. 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His 
Love 421 

Marzials,  Theophile,  18;)0 . 

The  Star 438 


Mickle,  WiUiam  J.,  1734-1788. 
The  Sailor's  Wife 331 

Miller,  Emily  Huntington. 
The  Bluebird 183 


MUton,  John,  1608-1674. 

Gladness  ot  Morning    ....      82 

Moore,  Thomas,  1779-1852. 

The  Minstrel  Boy 336 

Those  Evening  Bells     ....    381 

Newman,  John  H.,  1801-1890. 

Lead,  Kindly  Light      ....    375 

Normand,  M.  Jacques. 
The  Hat 376 

Norton,  Caroline,  1808-1877. 
King  of  Denmark's  Ride,  The  .    175 

Peahody,  E.,  1807-1856. 
Skaters'  Song,  The  .... 


366 


308 


384 


Phillips,  Charles,  1789-1859. 
Character  of  Napoleon  .     .     . 

Phillips,  Wendell,  1811-1884. 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture      .     . 

Pierpont,  John,  1785-1866. 
Warren's  Address  at  Bunker  Hill   159 

Poe,  Edgar  AUan,  1811-1849. 

The  Bells 349 

The  Raven 316 

Procter,  Adelaide  A.,  1825-1864. 
Legend  of  Bregenz,  A  .     .     .    .     108 

Eead,  Thomas  B.,  1822-1872. 

Rising  in  1776,  The 224 

Eeade,  Chas.,  1814-1884. 

Lark  in  Exile,  The 133 

Eobbins,  Mrs.  R.  D.  C. 

Soldier's  Reprieve,  The    .    .    .    201 

Robertson,  Frederick  W.,  1816- 
1853. 
Illusion  and  Delusion  ....     313 

RusMn,  John,  1819 . 

Use  and  Abuse  of  Wealth     .     .     129 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  1771-1832. 

Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee,  The  223 

Death  of  Marmion 236 

Douglas  to  the  Mob      ....  350 


INDEX   OF   AUTH0B8. 


Scoit,  Sir  Walter.  —  Continued. 

Elizabeth  and  Leicester     ...  139 
Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the 

Black 280 

Helen  to  the  Soldiers    ....  2oo 

Hunting  Song 233 

Lochinvar  .....•••  106 

Rosabelle 1*'^ 

Shakespeare,  "William,  1564-1616. 

Benedick  and  his  friends  ...  264 

Brutus  and  Cassius 288 

Dogberry  and  Verges  ....  344 

Funeral  of  Julius  Caesar    ...  176 

Hamlet's  Instruction  to  the  i.  layer  136 

Henry  IV.  and  Hotspur    ...  215 

Juliet  drinking  the  Potion     .     .  199 

Letter  Scene  from  Macbeth    .     .  253 

Last  Appearance  of  Lady  jNIacbeth  429 

Oftg^ning  Scene  —  Julius  Ca;sar  .  115 

Sessions  of  Thought  —  Sonnet  .  425 

Soliloquies  from  Hamlet  .     .     .  239 

The  Dream  of  Clarence     ...  329 

Wooing  of  Henry  V.,  The     .     .  192 

SheUey,  Percy  Bysshe,  1792-1822. 

The  Cloud 286 

The  Poet's  Dream ^94 

The  Spirit  of  Nature     ....     415 

To  a  Skvlark 90 

To  the  Night 308 

Sheridan.  Richard  B.,  1751-1816. 
Scenes  from  "  The  Rivals  "  .     .     167 

Sotithey,  Robert,  1774-1843. 

After  Blenheim 396 

Test  of  a  Bad  Book 183 

Spenser,  Edmund,  1553-1599. 

Lady  Una  and  the  Lion     ...     372 

Stedman,  Edmund  C,  1833  . 

The  Undiscovered  Country    .     .     361 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  1850-1894. 
The  House  Beautiful     ....     425 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles,  1837 


157 


Itylus    .    .    . 

Sylva,  Carmen. 
My  Rest     .     . 


Taylor,  Bayard,  1825-1878. 
Song  of  the  Camp,  The     • 


Taylor,  Tom,  1817-1880. 

Sam's    Letter.      (From    "Our 
American  Cousins")     .    .    . 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  1809-1892. 

Break,  Break,  Break    .     .    ,    .    172 

Brook,  The 122 

Bugle  Song 215 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade      .    165 

The  Departure 436 

Lad V  Clara  VeredeVere  .     .     .     191 

Lady  Clare 137 

Thackeray,    Wm.     Makepeace, 
1811-1863. 

Snobs 101 

Thaxter,  Celia,  1835-1894. 

The  Sand-Piper 354 

Trowbridge,  J.  T.,  1827 . 

How  the  King  Lost  His  Crown  .     366 

Midsummer 251 

The  Vagabonds 281 

Twain,  Mark,  1835 . 

The  Interviewer 

Waller,  John  Francis,  1810-1894 

Spinnmg-Wheel  Song,  The  .    . 

Ware,  WiUiam,  1797-1852. 
ZenoDia  to  her  Captor  .... 

Watson,  William,  1 858 . 

World-Strangeness 

Webster,  Daniel,  1782-1852. 
Tlie  Eloquence  of  Adams  .     .     . 

Whittier,  John  G.,  1808-1893. 
Kaliunaborg  Church    .     .     .     • 

Wilson,  John,  1785-1854. 

The  Owl  in  the  Graveyard    .    . 

Wolfe,  Charles,  1791-1823. 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The  . 

Wordsworth,  William,  1770-1850. 

By  the  Sea 399 

England  and  Switzerland 
Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill 
Intim'ationx  of  Immortality    . 
Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring 

Lucy 

Nature  and  the  Poet     .     .     . 
On  We-tminster  Bridge    .     . 

Tintern  Abbey 381 

To  the  Daisy 252 

200  Worldliness 1^2 


437 


432 


260 


97 


406 


431 


255 


412 


87 


361 


327 
248 
243 
111 
165 
394 
160 


ELEMENTAL    PRAXIS. 


I. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 
Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky-way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  the  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance 


WorJgwor^K 


Mekrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 

Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name. 


Bryant 


All  the  air  is  full  of  song, 

A  carolling  around  and  above-, 

From  the  wood-pigeon's  call,  so  soft  and  long, 

To  the  merriest  twitter  and  marvellous  trill 

Every  one  sings  at  his  own  sweet  will, 

True  to  the  key-note  of  joyous  love. 


Sweet  bird!   thy  bower  Is  ever  green. 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year  I 


12  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Oh!  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee! 

We  'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  spring. 


Logan. 


Akd  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 

We  hear  life  munnur,  or  see  it  glisten, 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers; 
The  little  bii'd  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives. 


Lowell. 


11. 
"VTTHAT  ho,  my  jovial  mates !  come  on !  we  '11  frolic  It 

'  "       Like  fairies  frisking  in  the  merry  moonshine ! 

Scott. 


A  SONG,  oh  a  song  for  the  merry  May ! 
Tlie  cows  in  the  meadow,  the  lambs  at  play, 
A  chorus  of  birds  in  the  maple-tree 
And  a  world  in  blossom  for  5'ou  and  me. 

GrvE  us,  O  give  us,  the  man  who  sings  at  his  work!     He  will  do 

more  In  tlic  same  time,  —  he  will  do  it  better,  —  he  will  persevere  longer. 

One  is  scarcely  sensible  of  fatigue  whilst  he  marches  to  music.    The 

very  stars  are  said  to  make  harmony  as  they  revolve  in  their  spheres. 

Wondrous  Is  tlic  strength  of  cheerfulness,  altogether  past  calculation 

its  powers  of  endurance.     Eflbrts,  to  be  permanently  useful,  must  be 

uniformly  joyous,  a  spirit  all  sunshine,  graceful  from  very  gladness, 

beautiful  becausa  bright. 

CariUfie. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  18 

The  wind,  one  morning,  sprang  up  from  sleep, 
Saying,  "Now  for  a  frolic!  now  for  a  leap! 
Now  for  a  madcap  galloping  chase! 
I  '11  make  a  commotion  in  every  place  I  * 


Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes! 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 

With  wonders  and  romances! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly-masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 


WhUtier. 


The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 

To  catch  the  breezy  air; 
And  I  must  think,  do  uU  I- can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 


Wordsworth . 


You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 
To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  day  of  all  the  glad  new  year ;  — 

Of  all  the  glad  new  year,  mother,  the  maddest,  merriest  day;  — 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May 

Tennyson, 


And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  dafibdils. 


Wordateorth. 


Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  vdth  thee 

Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides:  — 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  I 


iRttOn. 


14  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

m. 

"NT EAR  the  city  of  Sevilla,  years  and  years  ago, 
'''^      Dwelt  a  lady  In  a  villa,  years  and  years  agoj 

And  her  hair  was  black  as  night, 

And  her  eyes  were  starry  bright; 

Olives  on  her  brow  were  blooming; 

Roses  red  her  lips  perfuming; 

And  her  step  was  light  and  airy 

As  the  tripping  of  a  fairy. 
Ah !  that  lady  of  the  villa,  —  and  I  loved  her  so, 
Near  the  city  of  Sevilla,  years  and  years  ago. 


Waller. 


O  FOR  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cr}'^; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  wpves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads. 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


OunningAam, 


'T  IS  the  star-spangled  banner,  oh !  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

A'ey. 


I  ne'er  will  ask  ye  quarter,  and  I  ne'er  will  be  your  slave ; 
But  I  '11  swim  the  sea  of  slaughter,  till  I  sink  beneath  its  wave  I 

Patten. 

TV. 
TZTARK,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
'    '■    And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin. 
My  lady  sweet,  arise; 
Arise,  arise! 

Shakttpeare. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  1/f 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Tennyton. 


Insects  generally  must  lead  a  jovial  life.  Think  what  it  must  be  to 
.edge  in  a  lily.  Imagine  a  palace  of  Ivory  and  pearl,  with  pillars  of 
silver  and  capitals  of  gold,  and  exhaling  such  a  perfume  as  never  arose 
from  human  censer.  Fancy  again  the  fun  of  tucking  one's  self  up  for 
the  night  in  the  folds  of  a  rose,  rocked  to  sleep  by  the  gentle  sighs  of 
summer  air,  nothing  to  do  when  you  awake  but  to  wash  yourself  in  a 
dew-drop,  and  fall  to  eating  your  bedclothes. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your  changes. 

How  many  soever  they  be, 

And  let  the  brown  meadow- lark's  note  as  he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Ingelow. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtain'd  with  cloudy  red. 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave. 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  Infernal  jail. 

Each  fetter'd  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave. 

Jfilton. 


Through  this  the  well-belov5d  Brutus  stabb'd; 
And  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Ca;sar  foUow'd  it, 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolved 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  kuock'd,  or  no. 


Shakespeare. 


I  CAHE  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny: 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sk)% 
Througli  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face> 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns  by  living  stream  at  eve. 


£6  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  com, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 
The  cluster'd  spires  of  Frederick  stand, 
Green-wall'd  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


T  IS  the  end  of  all. 
The  gray  arch  crumbles  and  totters  and  tumbles, 
And  silence  reigns  In  the  banquet  hall. 


Whittier. 


Aldrich. 


I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls; 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls. 


Longfellow. 


The  winds  all  silent  are, 

And  Phoebus  in  his  car 

Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 

Makes  vanish  every  star: 

Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the  hills,  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels : 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  deck'd  in  every  hue; 

The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their  blue; 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place. 

And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  she,  alas  I 


Drununond. 


And  o'er  the  bay,  slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight. 
The  great  sim  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 


Only  a  brave  old  maple, 
Shorn  of  Its  scaxlet  and  gold, 

And  traced  in  the  scroll  of  sunset 
As  a  handwriting,  black  and  bold. 

Hk  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  liands: 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  tlie  azure  world,  lie  stands. 
The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Tennyaon. 


CLASSIC  SELECTIONS.  H 

V. 

NOBODY  looks  at  the  clouds  with  a  love  that  equals  mine; 
I  Lnow  them  in  their  beauty,  in  the  morn  or  the  even  shine. 
I  know  them,  and  possess  them,  my  castles  in  the  air, 
My  palaces,  cathedrals,  and  hanging  gardens  fair. 


Lovely  art  thou,  O  peace!  and  lovely  are  thy  children,  and  lovely 
are  the  prints  of  thy  footsteps  in  the  green  valleys. 


Athenceum. 


The  night  is  mother  of  the  day, 

The  winter  of  tlie  spring; 
And  ever  upon  old  decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  sunshine  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  His  works, 

H«s  \ei<  His  hope  with  all. 


Whitti«r. 


VI. 

YS  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendor  crowned ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round ; 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine! 


See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound. 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea's  profound! 

Browning. 


The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure ; 

But  the  least  motion  which  they  made. 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 


Wordiwotlh. 


18  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

"Joy  I  joy!"  she  cried:  "  my  task  is  done -» 
The  gates  are  passed,  and  heaven  is  won!" 


Ji0OT6k 


It  "svas  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

"With  a  hey  and  a  ho.  and  a  hey-nonino! 

That  o'er  the  green  cornneld  did  pass 

In  the  spring-time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

WTien  birds  do  sing  hey-ding-a-ding ; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


SAatespeart 


CoMz.  all  ye  jolly  shepherds, 

That  whistle  down  the  glen! 
Ill  teU  ye  of  a  secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken : 
What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o'  man  can  name? 
'TIS  to  woo  a  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 


Eogg 


H.UIK  I  hark  I  to  the  robin ;  its  magical  call 
Awakens  the  flowerets  that  slept  in  the  deUs ; 

The  snow-drop,  the  primrose,  the  hyacinth,  all, 
Attune  to  its  summons  their  silvery  bells. 

Hush :  ting-a-ring-ting.  don't  yon  hear  how  they  ring? 

They  are  pealing  a  fairy-like  welcome  to  spring. 


What  matter  how  the  night  behave? 
What  matter  how  the  north  wind  rave? 
Blow  high,  blow  low;  not  all  thy  snow 
Can  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 
Oh.  time  and  change,  with  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter's  day, 
How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gon« 
Of  love  and  life,  to  still  live  on  I 
Ah  I  brother,  only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now. 


WhUtier. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  19 


VIL 


TDACK,  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 
-*-       With  night  we  banish  sorrow: 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft;  mount,  lark,  aloft, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow  1 


Beyxoood. 


She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament : 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 
Like  twilight,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haimt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 


Words'oortri, 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes. 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream ; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


Bums, 


Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field. 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  jdeld. 


Marlowe, 


How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood. 

And  every  loved  spot  that  my  infancy  knew ;  — 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  In  the  well. 

WoodteoriJk 


20  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 
The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  graoe. 
The  woman's  soul  and  the  angel's  face, 
That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while! 
I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words; 
Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,— 
She  is  my  mother :  you  will  agree 
That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie. 
There  simmer  first  unfold  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarrj^; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

All  are  but  ministers  of  love. 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


O  Winter!   Ruler  of  the  inverted  year!  thy  scattered  hair  with 

sleet-like  ashes  filled,  thy  breatli  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 

fringed  witli  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows  than  those  of  age, 

thy  forehead  wrapped  in  clouds,  a  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy 

throne  a  Bliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels,  but  urged  by  storms  along 

its  slippery  way, —  I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st,  and  dreaded 

as  thou  art.  

0  BLiTiiK  new-comer!   I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice: 

O  cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  bird? 

Or  but  a  wandering  voice? 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring  1 

Even  yet  tliou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  Invisible  tiling, 

A  voice,  a  mystery. 

Wdrdtoot^k. 


CLASSIC    SELECTIONS.  1\ 

vin. 

THE  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

Byron. 


O  TRUSTED  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep-green  sea ! 

Ferguion, 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  iu  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet. 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 


Drake. 


CuME  of  the  unforgotten  brave, 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave, 
Shrine  of  the  mighty,  can  it  be 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 


Byron. 


Hurrah  !  hurrah !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war  I 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  for  Ivry  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre ! 

Macaulay. 


*'  Make  way  for  liberty,"  he  cried. 
Then  ran  with  arms  extended  wide, 
As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp ; 
Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp. 
"Make  way  for  liberty!"  he  cried; 
Their  keen  points  met  from  side  to  side* 
He  bowed  amongst  them  like  a  tree, 
And  thus  made  way  for  liberty. 


Montgomery. 


22  C1.ASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  mom. 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
The  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child! 


(hrnteall. 


The  coldest  gazer's  heart  grew  wa/m, 
And  felt  no  more  its  Indecision; 

For  every  soul  which  saw  that  form 
Grew  larger  to  contain  the  vision. 

"Him  have  I  seen,"  the  boy  exclaimed; 

"Yes,  him!   what  needs  he  to  be  named? 

The  world  has  only  one  broad  sun, 

And  Freedom's  world  but  "Washington ! " 


Re*d. 


Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters ;  leap  out  and  lay  on  load ! 
Let 's  forge  a  goodly  anchor,  a  bower,  thick  and  broad ! 

I'erguaon. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying; 
The  very  gale  their  names  seemed  sighing; 
The  waters  murmured  of  their  name; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray. 
Claimed  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay. 
Their  spirits  wrapped  the  dusky  mo-ontain, 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain. 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river, 
EoUed  mingling  with  their  fame  foj^ver. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
The  land  is  glory's  stUl,  and  theirs; 
T  is  still  a  watchword  to  the  earth : 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth, 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
60  sanctioned,  on  the  tyrant's  head; 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 


23 


Hurrah  for  the  sea!   the  all-glorious  sea! 

Its  might  is  so  wondrous,  its  spirit  so  free! 

And  its  billows  beat  time  to  each  pulse  of  my  soul, 

Which,  impatient,  like  them,  cannot  yield  to  control. 

Adieu,  adieu!   my  native  shore 

Fades  o"er  the  waters  blue; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  land  —  Good  Night! 


O  Calkdonia!   stern  and  wild. 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 

Land  of  my  sires !   what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 

That  knits  me  to  my  rugged  strand? 


K. 
~r  IKE  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
-*-^     Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  tliat  chafes  the  flood. 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood, — 
Even  such  Is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  In  and  paid  to-night: 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies; 
The  spring  entombed  In  autumn  lies; 
The  dew  's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past,  —  and  man  forgot ! 


Byron. 


Scott, 


Beaumont. 


It  is  not  work  that  kills  men ;  it  is  worry.  Work  is  healthy ;  you 
can  hardly  put  more  upon  a  man  than  he  can  bear.  Worry  is  rust  upon 
the  blade.  It  is  not  the  revolution  that  destroys  the  machinery,  but  the 
friction.  Beecher. 


24  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  3'ou  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring,  • 

If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring. 
When  naught  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring, 
You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure. 

For.     If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring, 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring. 
Or  your  own  honor  to  contain  the  ring, 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  vrith  the  ring. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Ah  yes,  I  will  say  again :  The  great  silent  men !  Looking  round  ou 
the  noisy  inanity  of  the  world,  words  with  little  meaning,  actions  with 
little  truth,  one  loves  to  reflect  on  the  great  Empire  of  Silence.  The 
noble  silent  men,  scattered  here  and  there,  each  in  his  department; 
silently  thinking,  silently  working;  whom  no  Morning  Newspaper 
makes  mention  of.  They  are  the  salt  of  the  Earth.  A  country  that 
has  none  or  few  of  these  is  in  a  bad  way.  Like  a  forest  which  had  no 
roots ;  which  had  all  turned  into  leaves  and  bought;  which  must  soon 
wither  and  be  no  forest.  Woe  for  us  if  we  had  rothing  but  what  wo 
can  show  or  speak.  Carlyle. 


0  FOR  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  th'ngs  I  heard  or  saw. 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 

1  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played; 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purplod  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  nigh*. 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimnied  pickerel  poncJ; 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond; 


CLASSIC    SELECTIONS.  3^ 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees. 

Apples  of  Hesperides ! 

Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 

Larger  grew  my  riches,  too; 

All  the  world  I  saw  or  Icnew 

Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 

Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy!  WMttier. 


But  indeed  Conviction,  were  it  never  so  excellent,  is  worthless  till  it 

convert  itself  into  Conduct.     Nay,  properly,  Conviction  is  not  possible 

till  then,  inasmuch  as  all  speculation  is  by  nature  endless,  formless,  a 

vortex  amid  vortices  :  only  by  a  felt  indubitable  certainty  of  Experience 

does  it  find  any  centre  to  revolve  round.     Most  true  is  it,  that  "  Doubt 

of  any  sort  cannot  be  removed  except  by  Action." 

Carlyle. 

X. 

"DOOKS  are  the  true  levellers.     They  give  to  all  who  faithfully  use 

-*-^     them  the  society,  the  presence  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  our 

race.  

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech. 

Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

"What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

Cranch. 


It  matters  very  little  what  immediate  spot  may  have  been  the  birth- 
place of  such  a  man  as  Washington.  No  people  can  claim,  no  country 
can  appropriate  him.  The  boon  of  Providence  to  the  human  race,  his 
fame  Is  eternity  and  his  dwelltng-plaoe  creation. 


Everett. 


Once  more :  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all  j 

Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall : 

Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 

Trj'  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R ; 

Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 

Don't — let  mc  beg  you  —  don't  say  "  How?"  for  "  "What?  ' 

And  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burs, 

Don't  strew  the  pathway  with  those  dreadful  ura. 


Holtnet. 


26  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS, 


XI. 


A    RM !  arm !  it  is  —  it  is  the  cannon's  opening  roar  I 
-^--*-  Byron. 


Sir,  in  the  most  express  terms  I  deny  the  competency  of  Parlia- 
ment to  do  this  act.  I  warn  you  do  not  dare  to  lay  your  hand  on  the 
constitution. 


"Hai>t!" — the  dust-brown  ranbg  stood  fast; 
"Fire!"  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 


WhitHer. 


"  To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms  1 "  they  cry ; 
"Grasp  the  shield  and  draw  the  sword; 
Lead  us  to  Philippi's  lord; 
Let  us  conquer  him  or  die !  " 


Up  drawbridge,  groom!     What,  warder,  ho! 
Let  the  portcullis  fall! 


Scott. 


I  WISH  for  nothing  but  to  breathe  in  this  our  island,  in  common  with 
my  fellow-subjects,  the  air  of  liberty.  I  have  no  ambition  unless  it  be 
to  break  your  chains  and  contemplate  your  glory.  I  never  will  be  sat- 
isfied so  long  as  the  meanest  cottager  in  Ireland  has  a  link  of  the 
British  chain  clanking  to  his  rags.  He  may  be  naked,  he  shall  not  be 
in  Irons.  

"Make  way  for  Liberty,"  he  cried: 

Made  way  for  Liberty,  and  diedl 


Tttet  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak,  —  unable  to  cope  with  so  for- 
midable an  adversary.  But  when  shall  we  be  stronger?  Will  It  be  the 
next  week,  or  the  next  year?  Will  It  be  when  we  are  totally  disarmed 
and  when  a  British  guard  shall  be  stationed  in  every  house?  Shall  we 
gather  strength  by  irresolution  and  Inaction?  Shall  we  acquire  the 
moans  of  cflectual  resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hug- 
ging the  delusive  phantom  of  hope,  until  our  enemy  shall  have  bound 
us  hand  and  foot?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak.  If  we  make  a  proper  use  of 
those  means  which  the  God  of  nature  hath  placed  in  our  power. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  27 

And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire? 
And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday? 
And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way 
That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood? 


Hsi7CsI  home,  you  idle  creatures;  get  you  home  I 


Be  gone  I 
Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees, 
Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 
That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 


Must  I  budge?    Must  I  observe  you?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
under  your  testy  humor?  JuUm  CcMar. 


AsH.ofKD  to  toil,  art  thou?  Ashamed  of  thy  dingy  workshop  and 
dusty  labor-flcld ;  of  thy  hard  hand  scarred  with  service  more  honor- 
able than  that  of  war;  of  thy  soiled  and  weather-stained  garments,  on 
which  mother  Nature  has  embroidered,  'mid  sun  and  rain,  'mid  fire  and 
steam,  her  own  heraldic  honors?  Ashamed  of  these  tokens  and  titles, 
and  envious  of  the  flaunting  robes  of  imbecile  idleness  and  vanity? 

Dewey. 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 

Dies  like  a  dog !     March  on !  "  he  said. 

WhUUm: 


O  HAST  thou  with  jealousy  infected 
The  sweetest  of  affiance  I  show  men  dutiful? 
Why,  so  didst  thou:  Seem  they  grave  and  learned? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  Come  they  of  noble  family? 
Why,  so  didst  thou:  Seem  they  religious? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  Or  are  they  spai-e  in  diet : 
Free  from  gross  passion,  or  of  mirth,  or  anger : 
Constant  in  spirit,  not  swen-ing  with  the  blood ; 
Such,  and  so  finely  bolted,  didst  thou  seem: 
And  thus  thy  fall  hath  left  a  kind  of  blot, 
To  mark  the  full-fraught  man,  and  best  indued, 
With  some  suspicion. 

Eemry  V. 


28  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not ;  he  was  but  a  fool  that  brought  m j  answer  bank. 


Infirm  of  purpose, 
Give  me  the  daggers !  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures ;  't  is  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
T  '11  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 
For  it  must  seem  their  guUt ! 


Charge  !  Chester,  charge  I    On  1  Stanley,  on  I 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


Macbeth. 


Seott. 


Approach,  thou  craven,  crouching  slave  I 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopyla3? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

O  servile  oflspring  of  the  free  — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore,  is  this. 
The  gulf,  the  rock,  of  Salamis ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own; 
Snatch  fi-om  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
WUl  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear; 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame; 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft,  is  ever  won. 


Byrwu. 


WnKKB  are  we?  What  city  do  we  inhabit?  Under  what  govern- 
ment do  we  live?  Here,  here,  Conscript  Fathers,  mixed  and  mingled 
with  us  all  — in  the  centre  of  this  most  grave  and  venerable  assembly 
—  are  men  sitting,  quietly  plotting  against  my  life,  against  all  your 
lives,  the  life  of  every  virtuous  senator  and  citizen.  Cioero. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  29 

Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 

Striiie  —  for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 

Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God,  and  your  native  land ! 

Malleck. 


Thk  gentleman,  sir,  has  misconceived  the  spirit  and  tendency  of 
Northern  institutions.  He  is  ignorant  of  Northern  character.  He  has 
forgotten  the  history  of  his  country.  Preach  insurrection  to  the 
Northern  laborers !  Who  are  the  Northern  laborers?  The  history  of 
your  country  is  their  history.  The  renown  of  your  country  is  their 
renown.  The  brightness  of  their  doings  is  emblazoned  on  its  every 
page.  .  .  .  "Where  is  Concord,  and  Lexington,  and  Princeton,  and 
Trenton,  and  Saratoga,  and  Bunker  Hill,  but  in  the  North?  And  what, 
sir,  has  shed  an  imperishable  renown  on  the  never-dying  names  of 
those  hallowed  spots  but  the  blood,  and  the  struggles,  the  high  dar- 
ing, and  patriotism,  and  sublime  courage  of  Northern  laborers?  The 
whole  North  is  an  everlasting  monument  of  the  freedom,  virtue,  intel- 
ligence, and  indomitable  independence  of  Northern  laborers.  Go,  sir, 
go  preach  insurrection  to  men  like  these ! 


S°' 


xn. 

having  named  the  man. 
Straight  to  inquire,  his  curious  comrade  ran. 


Byrom. 


I  KNOW  we  do  not  mean  to  submit.     We  never  shall  submit. 

Webster 


Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  tliy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace: 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy; 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy! 


WMUier 


80  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

I  DWELL,  where  I  would  ever  dwell,  in  the  hearts  of  my  people.     It  Is 

written  in  j^our  faces,  that  I  reign  not  more  over  you  tlian  within  you. 

The  foundation  of  my  throne  is  not  more  power  than  love. 

Wirt. 


'*  God  save  you,  mother !  **  straight  he  saith ; 
"Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 


It  Is  often  said  that  time  Is  wanted  for  the  duties  of  religion.    The 

calls  of  business,  the  press  of  occupation,  the  cares  of  life,  will  not 

suffer  me,  says  one,  to  give  that  time  to  the  duties  of  piety  which 

otlierwise  I  would  gladly  bestow.     Say  you  this  without  a  blush?    You 

have  no  time,  then,  for  the  special  service  of  that  great  Being  whose 

goodness  alone  has  drawn  out  to  its  present  length  your  cobweb  thread 

of  life,  whose  care  alone  has  continued  you  in  possession  of  that  xm- 

seen  property  which  you  call  your  time. 

£uckingham. 


JUL 

/^OME  back,  come  back,  Horatius ! "    Loud  cried  the  fathers  aU. 
^-^     •'  Back,  Lartius  1  back,  Herminius  I    Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !  " 
Macaulay, 


•'  Forward,  the  light  brigade ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said. 


Tennyson. 


Ho  I  strike  the  flag-staff  deep,  Sir  Knight  —  ho!  scatter  flowers,  fail 

maids: 
Hoi  gunners,  flre  a  loud  salute  —  ho!  gallants,  draw  your  blades. 

Macaulay. 


Ho,  Starbuck  and  Pickney  and  TenterdenI 
Run  for  your  shallops,  gather  your  men. 
Scatter  your  boats  on  the  lower  bay. 


Miller 


Tb  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again! 

I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld. 

To  show  they  still  are  free.     Methinks  I  hear 

A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 

And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  home  again  i 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  31 

0  BACKED  forms,  how  fair,  how  proud  you  look  I 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 

How  huge  you  are,  how  mighty  and  how  free ! 

You  are  the  tilings  that  tower,  that  shine ;  whose  smile 

Makes  glad  —  whose  frown  is  terrible ;  whose  forms, 

Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 

Of  awe  divine.  Knowlea 

Again  to  the  battle,  Achaians  I 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance; 
Our  land  —  the  first  garden  of  liberty's  tree  — 
It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free; 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 

The  pale,  djing  crescent  is  daunted. 
And  we  march  that  the  footprints  of  Mahomet's  slaves 
May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  graves. 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 

And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

Campbell. 


XIV. 
-r-rOLY!  holy  I  holyl  Lord  God  of  SabaothI 

Lord  of  the  Universe!  shield  us  and  guide  us, 
Trusting  Thee  always,  through  shadow  and  8uul 

Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us? 

Keep  us,  O  keep  us,  the  Many  in  One !  jTolmet. 


Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark -blue  Ocean  —  roll  t 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain. 


Syront 


On  the  heights  peals  the  thunder,  and  trembles  the  bridge ; 
The  huntsman  bounds  on  by  the  dizzying  ridge  : 
Undaunted  he  hies  him  o'er  ice-cover'd  wild. 
"Where  leaf  never  budded,  nor  Spring  never  smiled; 
And  beneath  him  an  ocean  of  mist,  where  his  eye 
No  longer  the  dwellings  of  man  can  espy  : 
Through  the  parting  clouds  only  the  earth  can  be  seen. 
Far  down  'neath  the  vapor  the  meadows  of  green- 


SclUlUr, 


82  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself,  — 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve. 

And,  like  this  unsubstantial  pageant,  faded,  — 

Leave  not  a  rack  behind. 

Tempest 

Roll  on,  j'e  stars ;  exult  in  youthful  prime ; 

Mark  with  bright  curves  the  printless  steps  of  Time  j 

Near  and  more  near  your  beamy  cai*s  approach, 

And  lessening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroach. 

Flowers  of  the  sky,  ye,  too,  to  age  must  yield, 

FraU  as  your  silken  sisters  of  the  field. 

Star  after  star  from  heaven's  high  arch  shall  rush, 

Suns  sink  on  suns,  and  systems  systems  crush. 

Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  centre  fall. 

And  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  mingle  all ; 

Till  o'er  the  wreck,  emerging  from  the  storm. 

Immortal  Nature  lifts  her  changeful  form. 

Mounts  from  her  funeral  pyre,  on  wings  of  flame. 

And  soars  and  shines,  another  and  the  same. 

Darwin, 


O  YE  loud  waves !  and  O  ye  forests  high ! 

And  O  ye  clouds  that  far  above  me  soared! 
Thou  rising  sun!  thou  blue  rejoicing  sky! 

Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 
With  what  deep  Avorship  I  have  still  adored 

The  spirit  of  diviuest  liberty! 


Coleridge. 


Advance,  then,  ye  future  generations!  We  would  hail  yo':,  as  you 
rise  in  your  long  succession,  to  fill  the  places  which  we  now  fill,  and  to 
taste  the  blessings  of  existence  where  we  are  passing,  and  shall  soon 
have  passed,  our  own  human  duration. 

We  bid  you  welcome  to  this  i)loasant  land  of  tlie  fathers.  We  bid 
you  welcome  to  the  healthful  skies  and  tlie  verdant  fields  of  New 
England.  We  greet  your  accession  to  tlie  groat  inlieritance  wliich  we 
have  enjoyed.  We  welcome  you  to  the  blessings  of  good  government 
and  roliglous  liberty. 


CLASSIC  SELECTIONS.  9B 

We  welcome  you  to  the  treasures  of  science  and  the  delights  of 
learning.  "We  welcome  you  to  the  transcendent  sweets  of  domestic 
life,  to  the  happiness  of  iindred,  and  parents,  and  children.  We 
welcome  you  to  the  immeasurable  blessings  of  rational  existence, 
the  immortal  hope  of  Christianity,  and  the  light  of  everlasting  truth- 

Webiter. 


XV. 

SLOWLY  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
Prom  the  field  of  his  fame,  fresh  and  gory; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  In  his  glory. 


Wclfe 


Blow  on!    This  is  the  land  of  Liberty!  jcnmciea. 


Poor  child!  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery:   "Let  me  die! 

Oh  I  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach!" 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  dearo: 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 


Jean  Ingelov 


CotTLD  you  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  bo  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 
Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew ; 
lis  I  lay  my  hand  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


m-»  Oraik. 


84  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

XVI. 

/~\    HOW    our    organ    cau    speak  with    its    many   and    wonderful 

^-^        voices !  — 

Play  on  the  soft  lute  of  love,  blow  the  loud  trumpet  of  war, 

Sing  with  the  high  sesquialtro,  or,  drawing  its  fuU  diapason, 

Shake  all  the  air  with  the  grand  storm  of  its  pedals  and  stops. 

Story. 


Grrat  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning;  — 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 
"WTio  on  HelvelljTi's   summit,  wide  awake. 

Catches  his  freshness  from  archangel's  wing; 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring. 


XmKs. 


The  one  with  yawning  made  reply: 

"  "WTiat  have  we  seen?  —  Not  much  have  I! 

Trees,  meadows,  mountains,  groves  and  streams, 

Blue  sky  and  clouds,  and  sunny  gleams." 

The  other,  smiling,  said  the  same; 

But  with  face  transfigured  and  eye  of  flame : 

"Trees,  meadows,  mountains,  groves  and  streams  1 

Blue  sky  and  clouds,  and  sunny  gleams." 


Brooks. 


Words  are  instruments  of  music :  au  ignorant  man  uses  them  for 
jargon ;  but  when  a  master  touches  them  they  have  unexpected  life 
and  soul.  Some  words  sound  out  like  drums ;  some  breathe  memories 
sweet  as  flutes ;  some  call  like  a  clarionet ;  some  shout  a  charge  like 
trumpets ;  some  are  sweet  as  children's  talk ;  others  rich  as  a  mother's 
answering  back. 

"Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast; 
"  Fire !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rirte-blast. 
It  shiver'd  the  window,  pane  and  sash, 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 
Quick,  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff, 
Dame  Barbara  snatch'd  the  silken  scarf. 
She  lean'd  far  out  on  the  wiudow-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  wilL 


CLASSIC  SELECTIONS.  86 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 
A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 
The  nobler  nature  •within  him  stirr'd 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word. 
""Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!     March  on!  "  he  said. 
All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet; 
All  day  long  that  free  flag  toss'd 
Over  the  heads  of  the  marching  host. 


Whitu— 


Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
The  hoarse  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 


"When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line,  too,  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow; 
Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 
Flies  o'er  the  unbending  com  and  skims  along  the  main 


Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  I 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 
Thou,  too,  saU  on,  O  Ship  of  State! 
Sail  on,  0  Union,  strong  and  great! 

Humanity,  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  I 


LongftUov> 


HoMEWAKD  the  swift- winged  sea-gull  takes  its  flight; 

The  ebbing  tide  breaks  softly  on  the  sand; 
The  red-sailed  boats  draw  shoreward  for  the  night; 

The  shadows  deepen  over  sea  and  land: 
Be  still,  my  soul,  thine  hour  shall  also  come; 
Behold,  one  evening,  God  shall  lead  thee  honie. 


36  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave. 
Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 

And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 
Ah!  few  shall  part  where  many  meet  I 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet. 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 

Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


Campbell 


O,  Mona's  waters  are  blue  and  bright 

When  the  sun  shines  out  like  a  gay  young  lover; 
But  Mona's  waves  are  dark  as  night 

When  the  face  of  heaven  is  clouded  over. 


Hark!  below  the  gates  unbarring! 

Tramp  of  men  and  quick  commands! 
"'Tis  my  lord  come  back  from  hunting,** 

And  the  Duchess  claps  her  hands. 
Slow  and  tired  came  the  hunters; 

Stopped  in  darkness  in  the  court. 
"  Ho,  this  way,  ye  laggard  hunters ! 

To  tlie  hall !     What  sport !  what  sport  1  " 
Slow  they  entered  with  their  master; 

In  the  hall  they  laid  him  down. 
On  his  coat  were  leaves  and  blood-stains, 

On  his  brow  an  angry  frown. 


Arncld. 


We  charge  him  with  having  broken  his  coronation  oath ;  and  we  ai  o 
told  that  he  kept  his  marriage  vow!  We  accuse  him  of  having  given 
up  Ills  people  to  the  merciless  inflictions  of  the  most  hot-headed  and 
hard-hearted  of  prelates;  and  the  defence  is,  that  he  took  his  little 
Bon  on  his  knee  and  kissed  him!  We  censure  him  for  having  violated 
the  articles  of  the  Petition  of  Right,  after  having,  for  good  and  valu- 
able consideration,  promised  to  observe  them ;  and  we  are  informed 
that  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  prayers  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  1 
[t  is  to  such  considerations  as  these,  together  with  his  Vandyke  dress, 
his  handsome  face,  and  his  peaked  beard,  that  he  owes,  we  verily  be- 
lieve, most  of  his  popularity  with  the  present  generation. 

Macaulay, 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  87 

They  are  here !    They  rush  on !    We  are  broken !    We  are  gone! 

Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the  blast. 
O  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might!     O  Lord,  defend  the  right! 

Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name,  and  fight  it  to  the  lastt 


Flower  In  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower;  —  but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


Tennyson. 


Half  out  of  breath,  the  cabin  door  I  swung, 
With  tender  heart-words  trembling  on  my  tongue; 
But  all  within  look'd  desolate  and  bare; 
My  house  had  lost  its  soul,  —  she  was  not  there. 


CarUton. 


ToussAiNT  was  too  dangerous  to  be  left  at  large.  So  they  summoned 
blm  to  attend  a  council ;  he  went,  and  the  moment  he  entered  the  room 
the  officers  drew  their  swords  and  told  him  he  was  a  prisoner. 

They  put  him  on  shipboard,  and  weighed  anchor  for  France.  As  the 
Island  faded  from  his  sight  he  turned  to  the  captain  and  said :  "  You 
think  you  have  rooted  up  the  tree  of  liberty,  but  I  am  only  a  branch ; 
I  have  planted  the  tree  so  deep  that  all  France  can  never  root  it  up." 
He  was  sent  to  a  dungeon  twelve  feet  by  twenty,  built  wholly  of  stone, 
with  a  narrow  window,  high  up  on  one  side,  looking  out  on  the  snows 
of  Switzerland.  In  this  living  tomb  the  child  of  the  sunny  tropic  was 
left  to  die.  Wendell  PMllip$. 

SiGNiOR  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft 

In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 

About  my  moneys  and  my  usances : 

Still  I  have  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug; 

For  Bufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 

You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog. 

And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine. 

And  all  for  use  of  that  which  Is  mine  own. 

Well,  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  ray  help 

Go  to,  then;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say: 

4GGS6 


d6  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

"Shylock,  we  ■would  have  moneys."    You  say  so; 
You  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold;  moneys  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you?     Should  I  not  say: 
"  Hath  a  dog  money?    Is  it  possible 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats?  "    or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
"With  'bated  breath  and  whispering  humbleness, 
Say  this : 

"Fair  Sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last; 
You  spurned  me  such  a  day;  another  time 
You  called  me  dog;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I'll  lend  you  thus  much  moneys?" 


Merchant  of  Venice, 


Itow  his  elder  son  was  in  the  field :  and  as  he  came  and  drew  nigh 
to  the  house,  he  heard  music  and  dancing.  And  he  called  to  him  one 
of  the  servants,  and  enquired  what  these  things  might  be.  And  he 
said  unto  him,  Thy  brother  is  come;  and  thy  father  hath  killed  the 
fatted  calf,  because  he  hath  received  him  safe  and  sound.  But  he  was 
angry  and  would  not  go  in ;  and  his  father  came  out  and  entreated  him. 
But  he  answered  and  said  to  his  father,  Lo,  these  many  years  do  I 
serve  thee,  and  I  never  transgressed  a  commandment  of  thine :  and 
yet  thou  never  gavest  me  a  kid,  that  I  might  make  merry  with  my 
friends  :  but  when  this  thy  son  came,  which  hath  devoiired  thy  living 
with  harlots,  thou  killedst  for  liim  the  fatted  calf.  And  he  said  unto 
him.  Son,  thou  art  ever  with  mc,  and  all  that  is  mine  is  thine.  But  it 
was  meet  to  make  merry  and  be  glad :  for  this  thy  brotlier  was  dead 
and  is  alive  again ;  and  was  lost,  and  is  found. 


How  shall  I  say?    Love  comes,  my  mother  says, 

Like  llowcrs  in  the  night  —  reacli  nio  those  violets  — 

It  is  a  flame  a  single  look  will  kindle 

But  not  an  ocean  quench. 

Fostered  by  dreams,  excited  by  each  thought, 

Love  Is  a  star  from  heaven,  tliat  points  the  way 

And  leads  us  to  its  home,  —  a  little  spot 

In  cartli's  dry  desert,  where  the  soul  may  rest,  — 

A  grain  of  gold  In  the  dull  sand  of  life.  — 

>.  foretaste  of  Elysium. 


CT.ASSIC  SELECTIONS.  S9 

xvn. 

A  MILLION  little  diamonds  twinkled  on  the  trees ; 
A  million  little  maidens  said :  "  A  jewel,  if  you  please." 
But  while  they  held  their  hands  outstretched  to  catch  the  diamonds 

gay, 

A  million  little  sunbeams  came  and  stole  them  all  away. 


Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 

And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet; 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh, 

You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tempest  beat. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

Longfellou). 


By  simlight  or  moonlight  its  splintered  gray  crest  is  the  one  object 

which  unfailingly  arrests  the  eye.     From  it  come  all  storms  of  snow 

and  wind,  and  the  forked  lightnings  play  around  its  head  like  glory. 

The  thunder  becomes  its  voice.     It  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  mountains, 

but  in  one's  imagination  it  grows  to  be  much  more  than  a  mountain. 

It  becomes  invested  with  a  personality.    In  its  caverns  and  abysses  one 

comes  to  fancy  that  it  generates  and  chains  the  strong  winds,  to  let 

them  loose  in  their  fury. 

"  Long's  Peak." —  Anon. 


I  WIELD  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 
And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 


Shelley. 


At.t.  In  a  hot  and  copper  sky  the  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 

Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand,  no  bigger  tlian  the  Moon. 

Water,  water,  everywhere,  and  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 

Water,  water,  everywhere,  nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ !  that  ever  this  should  be  I 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs  upon  the  slimy  sea. 

Coleridge. 


40  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

xvrn, 

"pACK,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 
-*-     With  night  we  banish  soitow; 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft,  mount  larks  aloft, 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow ! 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I  '11  borrow ; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  both  I  '11  borrow. 


Heyimoa 


All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole. 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul. 
That  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 
Great  in  the  earth  as  in  the  ethereal  frame. 
Warms  in  the  sun,  retreshes  in  the  bresze. 
Glows  in  the  stars  and  blossoms  in  the  trees. 


i%ipe. 


Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again; 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  I 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 

And  rouse  him  like  a  rattle  poal  of  thunder! 


When  the  mists  have  rolled  in  splendor 

From  the  beauty  of  the  hills. 
And  the  sunshine,  warm  and  tender. 

Falls  in  kisses  on  the  rills. 
We  may  read  Love's  shining  letter 

In  the  rainbow  of  the  spray; 
We  shall  know  each  other  better 

When  the  mists  have  rolled  away. 
We  shall  know  as  we  are  known, 

Never  more  to  walk  alone. 
In  tlie  dawning  of  tlic  morning, 

When  the  mists  have  rolled  away. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  42 


XIX. 


THE  rippliiii^  water,  with  its  drowsy  tone, 
The  tall  elms,  towering  in  their  stately  pride.. 
And  —  sorrow's  type  —  the  willoAv,  sad  and  lone, 
Kissing  in  graceful  woe  the  murmuring  tide; 
The  gray  church-tower;  and  dimly  seen  beyond, 

The  faint  hills  gilded  by  the  parting  sun; 
All  were  the  same,  and  seemed  witli  greeting  fond 
To  welcome  me,  as  they  of  old  had  done. 


AxONK  stood  brave  Horatius, 
But  constant  still  in  mind; 

Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 
And  the  broad  flood  behind 


MacavZay. 


Where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wildwood? 

Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all? 

OamphtU, 

These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  good ; 

Almighty,  thhie  this  universal  frame, 

Thus  wondrous  fair;  thyself  how  wondrous  then! 

Unspeakable,  who  sit'st  above  these  heavens, 

To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 

In  these  Thy  lowest  works,  yet  these  declare 

Thy  goodness  beyond  thought  and  power  divine. 


LET  me  not  hear  you  speak  of  Mortimer : 
S«nd  me  your  prisoners  by  the  speediest  means. 
Or  you  shall  hear  in  such  a  kind  from  me 
As  will  displease  you.  —  My  lord  Northumberland, 
We  license  your  departure  with  your  son :  — 
Bend  us  your  prisoners,  or  you  '11  hear  of  it. 

Henry  IV 


43  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

O,  THE  little  birds  sang  east, 
And  the  little  birds  sang  west. 


Mra.  BrotBnintff. 


I  AM  charged  with  pride  and  ambition.    The  charge  is  true,  and  I 

glory  in  its  truth.     Who  ever  achieved  anything  great  in  letters,  arts, 

or  arms,  who  was  not  ambitious  ?    Caesar  was  not  more  ambitious  than 

Cicero.     It  was  but  in  another  way.     Let  the  ambition  be  a  noble  one, 

and  who  shall  blame  it?    I  confess  I  did  once  aspire  to  be  queen,  not 

only  of  Palmyra,  but  of  the  East.     That  I  am.     I  now  aspire  to  remain 

so.     Is  it  not  an  honorable  ambition?    Does  it  not  become  a  descendant 

of  the  Ptolemies  and  of  Cleopatra? 

Ware* 


Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossoms  that  hang  on  the  bough. 


Her  father  loved  me ;  oft  invited  me ; 

Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 

From  year  to  year;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes. 

That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days 

To  th'  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it : 

Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field; 

Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach; 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 

And  sold  to  slavery;  of  my  redemption  thence, 

And  portance  in  my  travel's  history. 


atheOo. 


Wnx)  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 
Wild  and  disorderly. 


Scott  ( Battle  of  FlocUten'), 


The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 

And  spangU'd  heaven,  a  shining  frame. 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 


Cr.ASSIC   SELECTIONS.  48 

I  DO  believe, 

Induced  by  potent  circumstances,  that 

You  are  mine  enemy,  and  make  my  challenge: 

You  shall  not  be  my  judge ;  for  it  is  you 

Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me; 

Which  God's  dew  quench!     Therefore,  I  say  again, 

I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul 

Kef  use  you  for  my  judge;  whom,  yet  once  more, 

I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  not 

At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Shak*$peare, 


XXL 

THERE  -was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling, 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling. 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chattering. 
And  like  fowls  in  a  barnyard,  when  barley  is  scattering, 
Out  came  the  children  running : 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls. 
And  sparlding  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 


Browning. 


WroE  as  the  world  is  His  command, 

Vast  as  eternity  His  love; 
Firm  as  a  rock  His  truth  sliall  stand. 

When  rolling  years  shall  cease  to  move. 


So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 


WaCtt. 


Scott. 


O  THOU  Eternal  One!  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide; 

Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight; 
Thou  only  God!    There  Is  no  God  besids. 


44  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

Away!   away  I   our  fires  stream  bright 

Along  the  frozen  river, 
And  their  arrowy  sparkles  of  brilliant  light 

On  the  forest  branches  quiver. 
Away!  away  to  the  rocky  glen, 

Where  the  deer  are  wildly  bounding  I 
And  the  hills  shall  echo  in  gladness  again, 

To  the  hunter's  bugle  sounding. 


Who  hath  measured  the  waters  with  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  and 

regulated  the  heavens  with  a  span,  and  taken  up  the  dust  of  the  earth 
in  a  third  measure,  and  weighed  the  mountains  with  a  steelyard,  and 
the  hills  with  balances?  

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste, 

The  steed,  the  must'ring  squadron,  and  the  clatt*ring  car 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 

And  swif tlv  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war. 


Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers. 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Pointing  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 
Followed  tlie  Piper  for  their  lives.  Srowntng. 

I  SHOULD  say  sincerity,  a  deep,  great,  genuine  sincerity,  Is  the  first 
characteristic  of  all  men  in  any  way  heroic.  Not  the  sincerity  that 
calls  itself  sincere;  ah,  no!  that  Is  a  very  poor  matter  Indeed ;  a  shal- 
low, braggart,  conscious  bincrrlly;  often  self-conceit  mainly.  Tha 
Great  Man's  sincerity  is  of  tlie  kind  he  cannot  speak  of.  Is  not  con 
scious  of. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  45 

xxn. 

A    HURRY  of  hoofs  In  a  village  street, 
A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 
And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 
Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet: 
That  was  all.    And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light. 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 


From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white. 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding-night; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below. 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow; 
And  in  the  hush  that  follow' d  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair: 

"  Forever  —  never  I 

Never  —  forever  1 " 


Long/eUoic. 


What  is  time?  —  the  shadow  on  the  dial, —the  striking  of  the 
tlock,  — the  running  of  the  sand,  — day  and  night,  —  summer  and 
Winter,  —  months,  years,  centuries?  These  are  but  arbitrary  and  out- 
ward signs,  —  the  measure  of  time,  not  time  itself.  Tune  is  the  life  of 
{he  «oul.     If  not  this,  —  then  tell  me,  what  is  time? 


He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  River  where  ford  there  was  none, 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 


Scott 


So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 

Tlie  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 
Before  a  shallow,  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  our  feet! 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea.  lr^tlw> 


Ifi  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

O  MY  Maria  I  Alas !  she  married  another.  They  frequently  do.  I 
hope  she  is  happy  —  because  I  am.  Some  people  are  not  happy 
I  have  noticed  that.  Browne. 


Now  clear,  pure,  hard,  bright,  and  one  by  one,  like  to  hailstones, 

Short  words  fall  from  his  lips  fast  as  the  first  of  a  shower, — 

Now  in  twofold  column.  Spondee,  Iamb,  and  Trochee, 

Unbroke,  firm-set,  advance,  retreat,  trampling  along, — 

Now  with  a  sprightlier  springiness,  bounding  in  triplicate  syllables, 

Dance  the  elastic  Dactylics  in  musical  cadences  on ; 

Now,  their  voluminous  coil  intertangling  like  huge  anacondas, 

Roll  overwhelmingly  onward  the  sesquipedalian  words. 

Stacjf. 


TTTTT. 

SPEAK  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you,  trip- 
pingly on  the  tongue ;  but  if  you  mouth  it,   as  many  of  your 
players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines. 

ITamtet. 


There  is  a  tide  in  the  aflairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  its  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries: 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  It  serves, 
Or  lose  our  ventures. 


Clang,  clang !    The  massive  anvils  ring. 

Clang,  clang!     A  hundred  hammers  swing. 

Like  the  thunder-rattle  of  a  tropic  sky, 

The  mighty  blows  still  multiply.     Clang,  clang! 

Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow. 

What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now? 

Clang,  clang!     We  forge  the  colter  now,— 

The  colter  of  the  kindly  plough. 

Prosper  it.  Heaven,  and  bless  our  toUI 

May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 

To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind. 

The  most  bonij/fnant  soil! 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  47 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 
Had  a  quarrel, 
And  the  former  called  the  latter  "Little  prig." 
liun  replied, 
"You  are  doubtless  very  big, 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and    weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together 
To  make  up  a  year, 
And  a  sphere; 
And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 
You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry: 
I  '11  not  deny  you  make 
A  very  pretty  squirrel  track! 
Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  Avisely  put; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 


Leon.     Well,  niece,  I  Dope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with  a  husband 

Beat  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal  than  earth. 
Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered  with  a  piece  of  val' 
iaut  dust?  to  make  an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marlt 
No,  uncle,  I  '11  none :  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren ;  and,  truly,  I  hold 
it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you :  if  the  prince  do  solicit 
you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you  be  not  wooed  in 
good  time:  if  the  prince  be  too  important,  tell  him  there  is  measure  in 
everything  and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For,  hear  me,  Hero  :  wooing, 
wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque 
pace :  the  first  suit  Is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as  fan- 
tastical; the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a  measure,  full  of  state 
and  ancientry;  and  then  comes  repentance  and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls 
into  the  cinque  pace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 

Leon.    Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat,     i  have  a  good  eye,  uncle :  I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight. 

Much  Ado  About  2f^oiMafi. 


48  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  whence  comes  love?    A  morning's  light, 

It  comes  without  thy  call; 
And  how  dies  love?    A  spirit  bright, 

Love  never  dies  at  alL 

Inqomar, 

A  GENTLEMAN  friend  of  mine  came  to  me  one  day  vnth  tears  in  his 
eyes.  I  said,  "  Why  these  weeps?  "  He  said  he  had  a  mortgage  on  his 
farm,  and  wanted  to  borrow  two  hundred  dollars.  I  lent  him  the 
money,  and  he  went  away.  Some  time  after  he  returned  with  more 
tears.  He  said  he  must  leave  me  forever.  I  ventured  to  remind  him 
of  the  two  hundred  dollars  he  borrowed.  He  was  much  cut  up.  I 
thought  I  would  not  be  hard  upon  him,  so  I  told  him  I  would  throw  off 
one  hundred  dollars.  He  brightened,  shook  my  hands  and  said,  "  Old 
friend,  I  won't  allow  you  to  outdo  me  in  liberality.     I  '11  throw  off  the 

other  hundred."  Browne. 

XXIV. 
/^ASSIUS.     When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst  not  thus  have  moved  me. 
^^       Bm.     Peace,  peace,  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

Cas.     I  durst  not? 

Bru.     No. 

Cas.    What  I    Durst  not  tempt  him? 

Bru.     For  your  life  you  durst  not. 


But,  my  lords,  who  is  the  man  that,  in  addition  to  the  disgrace  and 
joischief  s  of  the  war,  has  dared  to  authorize  and  associate  to  our  arms 
the  tomahawk  and  seal  ping -knife  of  the  savage?  —  to  call  into  civilized 
alliance  the  wild  and  inhuman  inhabitants  of  the  woods?  —  to  delegate 
to  the  merciless  Indian  the  defence  of  disputed  rights,  and  to  wage 
the  horrors  of  his  barbarous  war  against  our  brethren?  My  lords, 
these  enormities  cry  aloud  for  redress  and  punishment. 


'  T 18  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich ; 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 

What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark. 

Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful? 

Or  is  tlic  adder  better  than  the  eel, 

Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 


Shaketp4<ur4, 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  49 

Cas.    That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  In  this  j 
You  have  conderan'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.     You  wrong'd  yourself  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.     In  such  a  time  as  this  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.    Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn'd  to  have  an  itching  palm ; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers.  

Good  name,  in  man  or  woman,  dear  my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls. 

"Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash;  'tis  something,  nothing; 

'Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands; 

But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 

Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 

And  makes  me  poor  indeed.  Shakespeare. 


Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep  laboring  organ  burst  upon  the  ear, 
falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as  it  were, 
huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume  and  grandeur 
accord  with  this  mighty  building!  With  what  pomp  do  they  swell 
through  its  vast  vaults  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through  those 
caves  of  death  and  make  the  silent  sepulchre  vocal!  And  now  they 
rise  in  triumphant  acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher  their 
accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on  sound.  And  now  they  pause, 
and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of 
melody ;  they  soar  aloft  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play 
about  those  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the  peal- 
ing organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air  into  music, 
and  rolling  It  forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn  cadences !  What 
solemn  sweeping  concords !  It  grows  more  and  more  dense  and  pow- 
erful,—  it  Alls  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very  walls,  the  ear 
Is  stunned,  the  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding  up 
in  full  jubilee,  it  is  rising  from  eartn  to  heaven ;  the  very  soul  seema 
»rrapt  away  and  floating  upward  on  tliis  swelling  tide  of  harmony. 

Irclng- 


50  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Bru.     Eemember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember: 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
"What  villain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice?    What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 


The  sun  does  not  shine  for  a  few  trees  and  flowers,  but  for  the 
wide  world's  joy.  The  lonely  pine  upon  the  mountain-top  waves  its 
sombre  boughs,  and  cries,  "  Thou  art  my  sun."  And  the  little  meadow 
violet  lifts  its  cup  of  blue,  and  whispers  with  its  perfumed  breath, 
"  Thou  art  my  sun."  And  the  grain  in  a  thousand  fields  rustles  in  the 
wind,  and  makes  answer,  "  Thou  art  my  sun."  And  so  God  sits  efful- 
gent iu  Heaven,  not  for  a  favored  few,  but  for  the  universe  of  life; 
and  there  is  no  creature  so  poor  or  so  low  that  he  may  not  look  up 
with  child-like  confidence  and  say,  "  My  Father!  Thou  art  mine." 

Beecher. 


XXV. 

~r  ORD,  Thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations.  Before 
-*— ^  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  Thou  hadst  formed 
the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  thou  art 
Ood. 


lo,  they  come,  they  come !  garlands  for  every  shrine. 
Strike  lyres  to  greet  them  home,  bring  roses,  pour  ye  wine ! 
Swell,  swell  the  Dorian  flute  through  the  blue  triumphal  sky. 
Let  the  cithron's  tone  salute  the  sons  of  victory ! 


O  THOU  that  roUest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  ray  fathers  1 
Whence  are  tliy  beams,  O  sun!  thy  everlasting  light?  Thou  comest 
forth  iu  tliy  awful  beauty;  the  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  iu  the 
western  wave. 


CLASSIC  SELECTIONS.  5] 

Abskncb  of  occupation  is  uot  rest; 

A  mind  quite  vacant  Is  a  mind  distressed.  Cmoptr. 

Ph(EBUS,  arise  I   and  paint  tlie  sable  skies 

With  azure,  -wliite  and  red:    rouse  Meranon's  mother  from  hel 

Tithon's  bed, 
That  she  may  thy  career  with  roses  spread: 
Tlie  niglitingalcs  tliy  coming  eachwhere  sing: 
Malve  an  eternal  spring! 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  deod; 
Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 
In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 
And  eraperor-llke  decora 
With  diadem  of  pearl  tliy  temples  fair: 
Chase  hence  the  ugly  night, 
Which  serves  but  to  make  clear  thy  glorious  light. 


XXVI. 

O  LARKS,  sing  out  to  the  thrushes, 
And  thrushes,  sing  to  the  sky  I 
Sing  from  your  nests  in  the  bushes, 

And  sing  wherever  you  fly ; 
For  I  'ni  sure  that  never  another  such  secret 
Was  told  unto  you. 

0  larks  !  sing  out  to  the  thrushes. 

And  thrushes,  sing  as  you  soar! 

1  think  when  another  spring  blushes 

I  can  tell  you  a  great  deal  more. 


i*HOU  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  valet 
O,  struggling  with  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink! 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  —  wake !  O  wake  I  and  utter  praise  I 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  In  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streamB? 


53  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Ye  hold  me  not!   no,  no,  nor  can; 
TMs  hour  has  made  the  boy  a  man : 
The  world  shall  witness  that  one  soul 
Fears  not  to  prove  itself  a  Pole. 


It  Is  this  accursed  American  war  that  has  led  us,  step  by  step,  Into 
all  our  present  misfortunes  and  national  dis^aces.  What  was  the 
cause  of  our  wasting  forty  millions  of  money,  and  sixty  thousand  lives  ? 
The  American  war.  "VVliat  was  it  that  produced  the  French  rescript 
and  a  French  war?  The  American  war.  "What  was  it  that  produced 
the  Spanish  manifesto  and  a  Spanish  war?  The  American  war.  What; 
was  it  that  armed  forty-two  thousand  men  In  Ireland  with  the  argu- 
ments carried  on  the  points  of  forty  thousand  baj^ouets?  The  American 
war.  For  what  are  we  about  to  incur  an  additional  debt  of  twelve  or 
'  ^urteen  millions?    This  accursed,  cruel,  diabolical  American  •war-. 


Ant.     0  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of  earth, 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers  I 
Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood  I 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesj',  — 
Which,  like  dumb  mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby  lips, 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue,  — 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men ; 
Domestic  fury  and  fierce  civil  strife 
Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy ; 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar, 
That  mothers  sliall  but  smile  wlien  they  behold 
Their  infants  quarter'd  with  the  hands  of  war; 
All  pity  choked  with  custom  of  fell  deeds : 
And  Cffisar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge. 
With  Ate  bj'  his  side  come  hot  from  hell. 
Shall  lu  these  confines  with  a  monarch's  voice 
Cry  "  Havoc,"  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war; 
Tliat  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth 
With  carrion  men,  groaning  for  burial. 


'uUui  Ccetar. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  53 

Once  more  unto  the  breacli,  dear  friends,  once  more, 

Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  Enijlish  dead! 

In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man 

As  modest  stillness  and  humility ; 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger; 

Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favored  rage. 

Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide, 

Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  his  full  height  1  — On,  on  you  noble  English, 

Whose  blood  is  fetched  from  fathers  of  war-proof! 

Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even  fought, 

And  sheathed  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. 

I  see  you  stand  like  gi'oyhounds  in  the  slips, 

Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game 's  afoot ; 

Follow  your  spirits,  and,  upon  this  charge. 

Cry,  —  Heaven  for  Harry !  England  1  and  St.  George ! 

Henry  V. 
XXVII. 

STABAT  mater  dolorosa, 
Juxta  crucem  lacrymosa. 
Qua  pendebat  Alius; 
Cujus  animam  gementem, 
Pertransivit  gladius. 

O !  quam  tristis  et  afflicta 
Fult  ilia  benedicta 

Mater  unigeniti. 
Quae  ma3rcbat,  cum  vldebat 

Natl  pcenas  inclytl. 


Dies  irae,  dies  ilia 
Solvet  sjEclum  in  favilla 
Teste  David  cum  sibylla. 

Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 
Quando  Judex  est  venturus, 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurus. 


54  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Tuba  inirum  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulcra  regionum, 
Coget  omnes  ante  thronum. 


Dixit  H  Dominus  Domino  \  m  •  eo :   Sede  a    de  •  xtria  •  me  •  is. 

Donee  ponam  iniraicos  |  tti  •  os,  scabellum  )  pe  •  dum  •  tuo  •  rum, 

Virgam  virtutis  tuae  emittet  Dominus  ex  |  Si' 07i  — ;  dominare  la 
medio  inimi  |  co  •  rum  ■  tuo  •  rum. 

Tecum  principium  in  die  virtutis  tuae,  in  splendoribus  san  |  cto 
rrim :  ex  utero  ante  lu  |  cife  •  rum  •  genui  •  te. 

Gloria  Patri  et  |   Fi  •  lio,  et  Spi  (  ri  •  tui  •  san  •  cto. 

Sicut  erat  in  principio,  et  nunc,  ct  |  sem  'per,  et  in  ssecula  saecu 
lo  '  rum.     A  •  men.  Psalm  ea% 


There  stood  an  imsold  captive  in  the  mart, 

A  gray-liaired  and  raajestical  old  man, 

Chained  to  a  pillar.     It  was  almost  night, 

And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone, 

And  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  of  a  dog 

Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 

Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung, 

As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 

'T  was  evening,  and  the  half-descended  sun 

Tipped  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 

Of  Athens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 

Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 

Through  which  the  captive  gazed.  .  .  . 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 

Upon  his  canvas.    There  Prometheus  lay, 

Clmined  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus  — 

The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 

Jf  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh; 

And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 

Kapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  forth 

"With  Its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 

And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye 

Flashed  with  a  passionate  Arc,  and  the  quick  curl 

Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 

"Were  like  the  wingSd  gods,  breatliing  from  his  Alj^t. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  M 

OtTR  hearts,  onr  hopes,  are  all  with  thee: 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tcarSi 

Our  faith,  victorious  o'er  our  fears. 

Are  all  with  Thee,  —  are  all  with  Thee  I 

long/elloun, 

xxvm. 

"TN  looking  forward  to  future  life,  let  us  recollect  that  we  have  not 
-*-  to  sustain  all  its  toil,  to  endure  all  its  sufferings,  or  encounter  all 
Its  crosses  at  once.  One  moment  comes  laden  with  its  own  little  bur- 
den, then  flies,  and  is  succeeded  by  another  no  heavier  than  the  last  t  if 
one  could  be  sustained,  so  can  another,  and  another. 


Sin  has  many  tools,  but  a  lie  is  a  handle  which  fits  them  all. 

ffolmes. 


Education,  briefly.  Is  the  leading  of  human  souls  to  what  Is  best, 
and  making  what  is  best  out  of  them;  and  these  two  objects  are  always 
attainable  together,  and  by  the  same  means :  the  training  which  makes 
men  happiest  In  themselves  also  makes  them  most  serviceable  to  others. 

Rtiskin. 


Heaven  Is  not  gained  In  a  single  bound; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  Its  summit  round  by  round. 


Eollana, 


Sober  Seth  sold  sugar,  starch,  spices;  simple  Sara  sold  saddles, 
Btirrups,  screws;  sagacious  Stephen  sold  silks,  satins. 


CoLLECTiNO,  projecting,  ^-eceding,  and  speeding,  and  shocking  and 
rocking,  and  darting  and  parting,  and  threading  and  spreading,  and 
whizzing  and  hissing,  and  dripping  and  skipping,  and  hitting  and 
splitting,  and  shining  and  tAvining,  and  rattling  and  battling,  and 
shaking  and  quaking,  and  pouring  and  roaring,  and  waving  and  raving, 
and  tossin.;  and  crossing,  and  flowing  and  going,  and  running  and 
stunning,  and  foaming  and  roaming,  and  dinning  and  spinning,  and 
dropping  and  hopping,  and  working  and  jerking,  and  guggling  and 
Btruggling,  and  heaving  and  cleaving,  and  moaning  and  groaning. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 


XXIX, 


'VT'OU  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

-*-      Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen; 
Newts  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong. 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 
Philomel,  with  melody 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby,  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby. 
Never  harm. 
Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 
"Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence  t 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near* 
"Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 
Philomel,  with  melody,  etc. 

A  Midsummer  Sight's  Vteam 


Full  fathom  Ave  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  tliat  were  his  eyesj 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  ais  knell : 

Ding-dong. 
Haxk  I  now  I  bear  them  —  ding,  dong,  bell ! 


Tell  me  where  Is  fancy  bred, 
Or  In  the  heart  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  ho-.v  nourished? 

Reply,  reply. 
It  Is  engender'd  In  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  It  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell: 
I'll  begin  it, — Ding,  dong,  bell. 


Shakesptiart, 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  67 

O  hark!  O  hearl  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar. 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow!  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  —  dying,  dying,  dying! 


XXZ. 

O  GOLDEN  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing!  O  imperial-moulded  form; 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore 
TJntil  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee.  Tennpson. 


Rise,  oh!  ever  rise, 
Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God! 


Coleridge. 


The  sun,  the  rose,  the  lily,  the  dove, — 

I  loved  them  all  in  my  early  love. 

I  love  them  no  longer,  but  her  alone  — 

The  pure,  the  tender,  the  only,  the  one! 
For  she  herself,  my  queen  of  love, 
Is  rose  and  lily  and  sun  and  love. 


O  TraER !  rather  Tiber !  to  whom  the  Romans  pray, 

A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms,  take  thou  In  charge  this  day! 


And  so  beside  the  silent  sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me, 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 
I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  frouded  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care.  WhittUr. 


58  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unliind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 


At  Tou  Like  It. 


And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming ; 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted,  never  more. 


BiAZE,  with  your  serried  columns! 

I  will  not  bend  the  knee! 
The  shackles  ne'er  again  shall  bind 

The  arm  which  now  is  free. 
I  've  mail'd  it  with  the  thunder. 

When  the  tempest  mutter'd  low; 
And  where  it  falls,  ye  well  may  dread 

The  lightning  of  its  blow ! 


Mark  me !     I  am  thy  father's  spirit ; 
Doom'd  for  a  certain  terra  to  walk  the  night, 
And  for  the  day,  confined  to  fast  in  fires, 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature, 
Are  burnt  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house 
I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrovv  up  thy  soul,  freeze  thy  young  blood, 
Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stai's,  start  from  their  spheres; 
Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part. 
And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine  : 
List,  list,  O  list!  SJiMJU»p4ar4. 

O  God!  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 

Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak  and  small, 
And  take  mc  ere  I  Iohb  it  all ! 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  M 

O  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thon 

That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 

Uphold  ino,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 

A  little  If-ngor!  aid  me,  give  me  strength 

Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 

Tennj/«on. 


XXH. 

HAIL  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances! 
Honored  and  blessed  be  the  evergreen  pine! 
Long  may  the  tree  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish  the  shelter  .and  grace  of  our  line! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 
"While  every  Highland  glen 
Sends  our  shouts  back  again, 
••  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!" 


Boot*. 


There  groups  of  merry  children  played; 

There  youths  and  maidens,  dreaming,  strayed. 

O  precious  hours !     O  golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  time-piece  told: 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

Longfellot»> 


Though  rudely  blows  the  wintry  blast. 
And  sifting  snows  fall  white  and  fast, 
Mark  Haley  drives  along  the  street, 
Perch'd  high  upon  his  wagon  seat : 
His  sombre  face  the  storm  defies; 
And  thus  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries,  — 

"  Charco' !  charco' !  " 
While  echo  faint  and  far  replies,  — 
"  Charco' !  "  —  "  hark  0  !  "  —  Such  cheery  sounds 
Attend  him  on  his  daily  roundB. 


Troitbriiiff*. 


60  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 


xrsii. 


"  /~\  HEAVEN !  "  he  cried,  "my  bleeding  country  save  I 

^^    Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave? 

Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 

Kise,  fellow-men !  our  country  yet  remains  I  " 

CampbelL 


Seer.     O  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height. 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee  to  blast  and  to  burn : 
Return  to  thy  dwelling;  all  lonely  return! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood ! 

Lochiel.     False  wizard,  avaunt !     I  have  marshalled  my  clan  i 

And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  lier  clajTUore  indignantly  draws. 

Campbell. 


Bowl  rang  to  bowl,  steel  clanged  to  steel,  and  rose  a  deafening  cry. 
That  made  the  torches  flare  around,  and  shook  the  flags  on  high : 
"IIo!  cravens!  do  ye  fear  him?     Slaves!  traitors!  have  ye  flown? 
Ho !  cowards !  have  ye  left  me  to  meet  him  here  alone? 
But  I  defy  him  !  —  let  him  come  !  "    Down  rang  the  massy  cup, 
While  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade  came  flashing  half-way  up ; 
And,  with  the  black  and  heavy  plumes  scarce  trembling  on  his  head, 
There,  in  his  dark,  carved  oaken  chair,  old  Rudiger  sat  —  dead ! 

Greem*. 

HunRAH !  the  foes  are  moWng  I    Hark  to  tlie  mingled  djn 

Of  flfe,  and  stoed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culvexin! 

The  flcry  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andrfi's  plain. 

With  all  the  liircllng  chivalry  of  Guclders  and  Almayne. 

Now,  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now,  — upon  them  with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  arc  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest, 

And  in  thoy  burst,  and  on  tlicy  rushod,  while  like  a  guiding  star. 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navai're. 


CLASSIC    SELECTIONS.  |] 


TYXIIT. 


OWERT  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 
Ou  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  tliee,  I'd  shelter  thee. 


Burnt 


**  HcKRAn !  it  snows !  "  cried  the  school-boy. 

And  his  shout  is  ringing  througli  parlor  and  hall; 

While  swift  as  tlie  wings  of  the  swallow  he's  out 
And  his  playmates  have  answered  the  call. 


The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day; 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness,  and  to  me. 


As  it  fell  upon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Whicli  a  grove  of  myrtles  made. 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing. 
Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring. 
Everything  did  banish  moan, 
Save  tlie  nightingale  alone. 


Bamjteld 


Bo  through  the  night  rode  Paui  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  niglit  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear,  — 

A  voice  in  tlie  darkness,  a  knoclc  at  tlie  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last. 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need. 

The  people  will  wakt'U  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed. 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


Longfellow. 


S2 


CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

The  night  is  mother  of  the  day, 

The  winter  of  the  spring; 
And  ever  upon  old  decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Tlirough  showers  the  sunbeams  fall; 
For  God,  who  lovoth  all  His  works, 

Has  left  His  hope  witli  all. 


WMttier 


Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  west  wind 
Comes  freshening  down  the  bay  I 

The  rising  sails  are  filling. 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way. 


WhtttUr. 


Oh!  tne  gallant  fisher's  life 

It  is  the  best  of  any! 
•Tis  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 

And  'tis  beloved  of  many; 

Other  joys  are  but  toys ; 

Only  this  lawful  is; 

For  our  skill  breeds  no  111, 

But  content  and  pleasure. 


ChalkiUU. 


And  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam,  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  iu  the  belfry  burns. 


LongfeUoux 


Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave  we  pass  Mm  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an*  a'  tliat. 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a*  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  OS 

Comb  one,  come  all!  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  rcmcmber  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun  came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon,  nor  brought  too  long  a  day; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night  had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember  the  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops  were  close  against  the  sky. 

It  WHS  a  childlgh  ignorance,  bat  now 'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I  'ni  farther  ott'  from  heaven  than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Nood. 

Up!  to  the  fields!  through  shine  and  shower, 
"What  hath  the  dull  and  drowsy  hour 

So  blest  as  this?  the  glad  heart  leaping, 
To  hear  morn's  early  song  subUme; 
The  earth  rejoicing  in  its  prime: 
The  summer  is  the  waking  time, 

The  winter,  time  for  sleeping. 


Words  learned  by  rote  a  parrot  may  rehearse, 

But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse; 

Not  more  distinct  from  harmony  divine 

The  constant  creaking  of   a  country  sigu.  Oowp«r, 

Yv.  guards  of   liberty, 
I  'm  with  you  once  again !     I  call  to  you 
"With  all  my  voice!     I  hold  my  hands  to  you, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.     I  rush  to  you 
As  though  I  could  embrace  you !  Knoioles. 


Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions, 
senses,  allections,  passions?  fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the 
same  Aveapons,  subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  summer,  as  aCliristian  is? 
If  you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed?  If  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh? 
If  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die?  and  if  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not 
revenge?    If  we  are  like  you  "'i  the  rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in  that. 

Merchant  of  K««ice. 


64  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up  I 
Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail: 
She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes. 
And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 


Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  I 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play! 
"Who  hath  not  learned  in  hours  of  faith 

The  truth,  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own.  WT-^itHf 


Nail,  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag. 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale.  Bolmet 


*FAREWT:rxI"  said  he,  "Minnehahal 

Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water! 

All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you. 

All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  I 

Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 

Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 

Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 

Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body."        Longfeiloa, 


01  HOW  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array; 
With  all  its  pricst-lcd  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers. 
And  Appenzel's  stout  Infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  tlie  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land; 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  tiie  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand : 
And  as  wo  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled  floocl 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair,  all  dabbled  with  his  blood; 
And  we  cried  unto  tlie  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  Ills  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Macaulay. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  0ft 

Fbom  the  low-roofed  cottage  ridge, 

See  the  chattering  swallow  spring, 
Darting  through  the  one-arched  bridge, 

Quick  she  dips  her  dappled  wing. 
Now  the  pine-tree's  waving  top 

Gently  greets  the  morning  gale; 
Kidlings  now  begin  to  crop 

Daisies  on  the  dewy  dale. 
From  the  balmy  sweets,  uncloyed 

(Restless  till  the  task  be  done), 
Now  the  busy  bee 's  emploj^ed 

Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 
Sweet,  O  sweet,  the  warbling  throng, 

On  the  white  emblazoned  spray  1 
Nature's  universal  song 

Echoes  to  the  rising  day. 

Ounnlnghctm. 


O  horrible!    O  horrible!  most  horrible! 

Ramlet. 


TbMtB  Is  a  time  in  every  man's  education  when  he  arrives  at  the  con- 
viction tnat  envy  Is  ignorance ;  that  imitation  is  suicide ;  that  he  must 
take  himself,  for  better  or  for  worse,  as  his  portion ;  that,  though  the 
wide  universe  is  full  of  good,  no  kernel  of  nourishing  corn  can  come 
to  him  but  through  his  toil  bestowed  on  that  plot  of  ground  which  i8 
given  him  to  till.  Emeraon. 

ITe  sons  of  Freedom,  wake  to  glory! 

Hark!  hark!  what  myriads  bid  ye  rise! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary, 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries. 


I  LIVE  for  those  who  love  me, — 

For  those  who  know  me  true; 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 

And  awaits  my  spirit,  too; 
For  the  cause  that  lacks  assistance. 
For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance, 
For  the  future  in  the  distance. 

And  the  good  that  I  can  do.  Bank* 


66  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Dkak  Mabel,  tMs  no  more  shall  be; 
Who  scoffs  at  j'ou,  mast  scoff  at  me. 


WhitUer 


Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead ;  and  -wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep ;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings ;  and  withered  murder, 
Alarumed  by  his  sentinel,  the  Avolf, 
Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
Towards  bis  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost.  —  Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 
Which  now  suits  with  it. 


Macbeth 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make. 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  Innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  heritage : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  lore, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above. 

Enjoy  such  liberty.  Loveiaee. 


Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime. 
Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  the  shores  look  dim, 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Sow,  brothers,  row  I  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past. 


Soldiers  !  you  are  now  within  a  few  steps  of  the  enemy's  outpost. 
Our  scouts  report  theni  as  slumbering  in  parties  around  their  watch- 
flres,  and  utterly  unprepared  for  our  appmacli.  A  swift  and  noiseless 
advance  around  tliat  projecting  rock,  and  we  arc  upon  them,  —  we  cap- 
ture them  without  the  possibility  of  resistance.  One  disorderly  noise 
or  motion  may  leave  ufl  at  the  mercy  of  their  advanced  guard.  Let 
every  man  keen  the  strictest  silence,  imder  pain  of  instant  death  1 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  i1 

O  GLORIOUS  youth,  that  once  was  mine  I 

O  high  ideal !  all  in  vain 
Ye  enter  at  this  ruined  shrine 

Whence  worship  ne'er  shall  rise  again; 
The  bat  and  owl  inhabit  here, 

The  snake  nests  in  the  altar-stone, 
The  sacred  vessels  moulder  near, 

The  image  of  thy  God  is  gone.  jAnoell 


A  MIGHTY  wind  went  raging  by,  — 

It  Avas  a  wondrous  sight ;  — 
Stout  trees  bent  down  their  branches  high, 
Dark  clouds  of  dust  wheeled  through  the  sky, 
And  naught  around  me  could  I  spy, 

But  trophies  of  its  might. 


Said  the  Wind  to  the  Moon,  "  I  will  blow  you  out. 

You  stare 

In  the  air 

Like  a  ghost  in  a  chair, 
Always  looking  wliat  I  'ra  about. 
I  hate  to  be  watched ;  I  will  blow  you  out ! ' 


MacDonald 


But  he  who  loved  her  too  well  to  dread, 
The  sweetly,  the  stately,  the  beautiful  dead, 
He  lit  his  lamp,  and  took  the  key 
And  turned  it  —  alone  again  —  he  and  she. 


Arnold 


H.  jiK !  't  is  the  bluebird's  venturous  strain, 

Hij^h  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate, 

Sw«et  voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough,  alert,  elate, 

DoQging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow,  New  England's  poet-laureate, 

Telling  us  spring  has  come  again. 

Aldrich 


I  SLEEP  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moau. 

Before  I  am  well  awake. 
Let  me  bleed !  oh,  let  me  alone, 

Since  I  must  not  break!  ingeioui. 


68  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Pass  on,  relentless  world!     I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven; 
Pass  on,  in  God's  name,  —  only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  j'et  hast  given  — 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home, 

Affections  fixed  above  thy  sway, 
Faith  set  upon  a  world  to  come, 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day. 


Lunt. 


Whispered    low  the   dying  soldier,   press'd    her  hand,    and   faintly 

smiled  : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch  beside  her  cliild? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother!  "  murmured  he,  and  died 

Whittier. 


O  BLOWS  that  smite !  0  hurts  that  pierce 

This  shrinking  heart  of  mine ! 
What  are  ye  but  the  Master's  tools, 

Forming  a  work  divine? 
O  hope  that  crambles  at  my  feet! 

0  joy  that  mocks  and  flics! 
What  are  ye  but  the  clogs  that  bind 

My  spirit  from  the  skies! 
Sculptor  of  souls!  I  lift  to  thee 

Encumbered  heart  and  hands; 
Spare  not  the  chisel,  set  me  free, 

However  dear  tlie  bands. 
How  blest,  if  all  these  seeming  ills, 

Which  draw  ray  thoughts  to  Thee, 
Should  only  prove  that  Thou  wilt  make 

An  angel  out  of  me ! 


I  THOUGHT  awhile,  then  slumber  came  to  me, 
And  tangled  all  my  fancy  in  her  maze, 

And  I  was  drifting  on  a  raft  at  sea, 

The  near  all  ocean,  and  the  far  all  haze; 

ThroiiLrh  the  white  polished  water  shariss  did  glide. 

And  up  In  heaven  I  saw  no  stars  to  guide. 


I 


Jean  Ingeloto. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  69 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way 

And  merrily  lient  the  stile-a; 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  u  niile-a. 

mnler'a  Tale. 


O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  Avith  nifc. 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town? 
Can  silent  glens  liave  charms  for  thee,  — 

The  lonely  cot  and  russet  gown? 
No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen. 

No  longer  decked  with  jewels  rare. 
Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 


Percy. 


O  Time  and  Change !  with  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 
How  strange  it  seems,  Avith  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on ! 


Pray  you,  tread  softly,  —  that  the  blind  mole  may  not 
Hear  a  foot  fall ;  we  are  now  near  his  cell. 


O  MY  Kyrat,  0  my  steed, 
Round  and  slender  as  a  reed, 

Carry  nie  this  peril  through! 
Satin  housings  shall  be  thine. 
Shoes  of  gold,  O  Kyrat  mine, 

0  thou  soul  of  Kurroglou. 
All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine, 
Polished  bright;  0,  life  of  mine. 

Leap,  and  rescue  Kurroglou. 


jLongfellow. 


Only  waiting  till  the  shadows  are  a  little  longer  grown ; 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer  of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded  from  the  heart,  once  full  of  day ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  are  breaking  through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray 

Amr 


70  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 

Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are; 

Though  you  bind  in  every  shore 
And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 

As  night  or  day, 

Yet  you,  proud  monarchs,  must  obey 

And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when 

Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common  men. 


He  is  coming !  he  is  coming !     Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room 

Came  the  hero  from  his  prison  to  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 

There  was  glory  on  his  forehead,  there  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 

And  he  never  walked  to  battle  more  proudly  than  to  die. 

There  was  color  in  his  visage,  though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan ; 

And  they  marvelled  as  they  saw  him  pass,  that  great  and  godly  man  1 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold,  and  he  turned  him  to  the  crowd; 

But  they  dared  not  trust  the  people,  so  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  heavens,  and  they  were  clear  and  blue. 

And  in  the  liquid  ether  the  eye  of  God  shone  through ; 

Tet  a  black  and  murky  battlement  lay  resting  on  the  hill, 

^s  though  the  thunder  slept  within,  —  all  else  was  calm  and  still. 


XXXIV. 

ri^^HY  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream, 
-^     When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover ; 
Thy  braes  how  dreary.  Yarrow  stream, 
"When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover! 


Logan. 


Hark  !  how  'mid  their  revelry 
They  raise  the  battle-crj'!     The  clang  of  arras, 
And  war,  and  victory  for  me !     Away 
With  idle  dreams!     Why,  what  to  me  are  women? 
Yet  she  —  all !  she  is  not  like  those  at  home, 
Clad  in  tlieir  shaggy  skins,  sunburned,  their  bodies 
Loaded  witli  clumsy  ornaments,  happy  in  bondage, 
With  base  caresses  humbly  seeking  favor 
Of  their  base  lords. 

Ingomar. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  71 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror,  straight  she  turn'd  away  her  head ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  look'd  she  back  upon  her  dead ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of 

pain, 
ind  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

WfUttier. 


Around  thee  and  above, 
Deep  In  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  with  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity. 


Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne. 

O'er  the  meadows  swift  we  fly; 
Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 

Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

Darley  {Summer  Wind). 


He  has  no  children.     All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say  all?    O  hell-kite !  all? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop? 

But,  gentle  Heaven, 
Cut  short  all  intermission ;  front  to  front 
Bring  Thou  this  fiend   of  Scotland  and  myself, 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him;  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too ! 


And  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers. 
"We  are  lost!"  the  captain  shouted 

As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 
But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
*'  Is  n't  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land?" 


neidt. 


72  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong ; 

And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through  thee,  are  fresh  and  strong 

Wordsworth. 

Bru.     How  ill  this  taper  burns !     Ha !  who  comes  here? 
I  thiulc  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me.     Art  thou  any  tiling? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  makest  my  blood  cold  and  my  hair  to  stare? 
Speak  to  me  what  thou  art. 

GJwst.     Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bru.     Why  comest  thou  ? 

GJwst.     To  tell  thee  thou  shalt  see  me  at  Phllippl. 

Bru.     "Well;  then  I  shall  see  thee  again? 

Ghost.     Aye,  at  Philippi. 

Bru.    Why,  I  will  see  thee  at  Philippi,  then.     lExit  Ghost. 
Now  I  have  taken  heart,  thou  vanishest : 
111  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee. 
Coy,  Lucius!  Varro!  Claudius!  Sirs,  awake  I 
Claudius  1 

XXXV. 

NOT  only  around  our  infancy 
Dolli  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  Ilej 
Dally,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not.  Low»ll. 


Geneeally  speaking,  an  author's  style  Is  a  faithful  copy  of  his 
mind.  If  you  would  write  a  lucid  style,  let  there  first  be  light  in  your 
own  mind;  and  if  you  would  write  a  grand  style,  you  ought  to  have  a 
grand  character. 

Wk  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

Long/elloiOt 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  7t 

Be  good,  sweet  child,  and  lot  who  will  be  clever, 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them  all  day  long, 

And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever 

One  grand  sweet  song.  Kingaley. 


Wiiicri  is  the  real  hereditary  sin  of  humanity?  Do  you  Imagine 
that  I  sliall  say  pride,  or  luxury,  or  ambition?  No!  I  shall  say  indo- 
lence.    Pie  who  conquers  that,  can  conquer  all. 


Bear  with  mc,  good  boy,  I  am  much  forgetful. 

Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile, 

And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two? 

I  trouble  thee  too  much ;  but  thou  art  willing. 

I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy  might: 

I  know,  young  bloods  lack  for  a  time  of  rest. 

I  will  not  hold  thee  long:  if  I  do  live, 

I  will  be  good  to  thee.  Julius  C«»ar. 

The  characteristic  of  genuine  heroism  Is  its  persistency.  All  men 
have  wandering  impulses,  fits  and  starts  of  generosity.  But  when 
you  have  resolved  to  be  great,  abide  by  yourself  and  do  not  weakly  try 
to  reconcile  yourself  with  the  world. 


Emerson. 


The  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven, 
On  gleams  of  star  and  dopths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew. 


One  is  sometimes  asked  by  young  people  to  recommend  a  course  of 
reading.  My  ad /ice  would  be  that  they  should  confine  themselves  to 
the  supreme  books  in  whatever  literature,  or  still  better,  to  choose 
some  one  great  author,  and  make  themselves  thoroughly  familiar  with 
him. 


74  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell: 

It  fell  upon  a  western  flower, 

Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 


Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  mind  impress; 

That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 


On  the  whole,  we  make  too  much  of  faults ;  the  details  of  the  busi- 
ness hide  the  real  centre  of  it.  Faults?  The  greatest  of  faults,  I 
should  say,  is  to  be  conscious  of  none.  "What  are  faults,  what  are  the 
outward  details  of  a  life,  if  the  inner  secret  of  it,  the  remorse,  the  temp- 
tations, true,  often-baffled,  never-ending  struggle  of  it  be  forgotten? 
'  It  is  not  in  man  that  walketh  to  direct  his  steps.'  Of  all  acts,  is  not, 
for  a  man,  repentance  the  most  divine?  The  deadliest  sin,  I  say,  were 
that  same  supercilious  consciousness  of  no  sin ;  —  that  is  death ;  the 
heart  so  conscious  is  divorced  from  sincerity,  humility  and  fact;  is 

dead ;  it  is  '  pure '  as  dead,  dry  sand  is  pure. 

Carlyle. 


rxxn. 

/^  O  ring  the  bells,  and  fire  the  gvins, 
^-^       And  fling  the  starry  banners  out; 
Shout  "Freedom!"  till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle  shout. 


But  here  I  stand  and  scoff  you !   here,  I  fling 
Hatred  and  full  deflance  in  your  face! 
Your  consul 's  merciful :  —  for  this  all  thanks. 
He  dares  not  touch  a  hair  of  Catiline! 


OUK  brethren  are  already  in  the  field!  "Why  stand  we  here  Idle? 
What  Is  it  tliat  gentlemen  wish?  what  would  they  have?  Is  life  so 
dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of  chains  and 
slavery?  Forbid  It,  Almighty  God.  I  know  not  what  course  others 
may  take,  but,  as  for  me,  give  mo  liberty,  or  give  me  death  I 

Patrick  B*nry. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  76 

Up,  up!  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 

Or  surely  you  '11  grow  double; 
Up,  up!  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks; 

"Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 
The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 
Books !  't  is  a  dull  and  endless  strife ; 

Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet  j 
How  sweet  his  music !  on  my  life, 

There  's  more  of  wisdom  in  it.  Wordtworth. 


And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  a  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;   a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  maa: 
A  motion  and  a  spiiit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.  WordsvDo*th. 

To  sea,  to  sea!    Our  wide-winged  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark. 
Break  the  caved  Triton's  azure  day, 

Like  mighty  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 

The  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  sea!  Beddot 


Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three ; 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  haai 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  mef  MwMviay, 


76  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  castU'd  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowus  o'er  the  wide  and  wluding  Rhina, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these. 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 


Rouse,  ye  Romans !     Rouse,  ye  slaves !  MUford. 


And,  sir,  where  American  liberty  raised  its  first  voice,  and  where  its 
youth  was  nurtured  and  sustained,  there  it  still  lives  in  the  strength  of 
its  manhood,  and  full  of  its  original  spirit.  If  discord  and  disunion 
shall  wound  it;  if  party  strife  and  blind  ambition  shall  hawk  at  and 
tear  it ;  if  folly  and  madness,  if  uneasiness  under  salutary  and  neces- 
sary restraints,  shall  succeed  to  separate  it  from  that  Union  by  which 
alone  its  existence  is  made  sure,  — it  will  stand,  in  the  end,  by  the  side 
of  that  cradle  in  which  its  infancy  was  rocked ;  it  will  stretch  forth  its 
arm,  with  whatever  of  vigor  it  may  retain,  over  the  friends  who  gather 
round  it;  and  It  will  fall,  at  last,  if  fall  it  must,  amidst  the  proudest 

monuments  of  its  own  glory,  on  the  very  spot  of  its  origin ! 

Webster, 


xxxvn. 

"DB  noble!  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
•^-^     In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  deadf 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own. 


When  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God, 

My  rising  soul  surveys, 
Transported  with  the  view,  I  'm  lost 

In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 


Of  old  hast  Thou  laid  the  foundation  of  the  earth ;  and  the  heavena 
are  the  work  of  Thy  hands.  They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  shalt  en- 
dure; yen,  all  of  tlicra  shall  wax  old  like  a  garment;  as  a  vesture  shalt 
thou  change  them,  and  tlicy  shall  be  changed  :  but  thou  art  the  same; 
and  Thy  years  shall  have  no  end. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS.  77 

Oh,  to  the  living  fe^r, 

Soldiers,  be  just  and  true. 

Hail  them  as  comrades  tried ; 

Fight  with  them  side  by  side.  Boker. 


Careless  seems  the  great  avenger ;  history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and  the  Word ; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne,  — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim  uuknowii. 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his  own. 

Lowell. 

DE.VR  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies, — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  Thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 


Let  the  Avords  of  my  mouth  and  the  meditation  of  my  heart  be 
icceptable  in  thy  sight,  O  Lord,  my  rock  and  my  redeemer. 


The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd ; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath ;  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 

It  blesseth  him  tliat  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 

'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  thronfed  monarch  better  than  his  crown : 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  : 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway ; 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings  : 

It  is  an  attribute  of  God  himself : 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Tlierefore,  Jew, 

Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  tliis,  — 

That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation ;  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 

The  deeds  oi  mercy.  Merchant  of  Venice, 


7%  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Wk  see  not,  know  not;   all  our  way 
Is  night  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day: 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done. 


Whiaut 


Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  mo 
'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good; 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 


Tennyson, 


So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night. 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon;    but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


The  Situation  that  has  not  its  Duty,  its  Ideal,  was  never  yet  occu- 
pied by  man.  Yes  here,  in  this  poor,  miserable,  hampered,  despicable 
Actual,  wherein  thou  even  now  standest,  here  or  nowhere  is  thy  Ideal  • 
work  it  out  therefrom ;  and  working,  believe,  live,  be  free.  Fool ! 
the  Ideal  is  in  thyself,  the  impediment  too  is  in  thyself :  thy  Condition 
is  but  the  stuff  thou  art  to  shape  that  same  Ideal  out  of :  what  matters 
whether  such  stuff  be  of  this  sort  or  that,  so  the  Form  thou  give  it 
be  heroic,  be  poetic?  O  thou  that  pinest  in  the  imprisonment  of  the 
Actual,  and  cricst  bitterly  to  the  gods  for  a  kingdom  wherein  to  rule 
and  create,  know  this  of  a  truth :  the  thing  thou  seekest  is  already 
with  thee,  "here  or  nowhere,"  couldst  thou  only  see ! 


CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 


THE  BEOOKLET. 


rpHE  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 
-*-      As  saiig  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold. 
Far  away  in  the  brin}'  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 
And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 

Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 
And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 

That  turbulent,  bitter  heart. 


Longfellow, 


8IN0EEITY  IN   SPEECH. 

AN  exception  was  early  taken  against  BosweU's  Life  of 
Johnson,  and  all  similar  enterprises  ;  and  has  been  trans- 
mitted from  critic  to  critic,  and  repeated  in  their  several  dia- 
lects ever  since  :  That  such  jottings-down  of  careless  conversa- 
tion are  an  infringement  of  social  privacy  ;  a  crime  against  our 
highest  Freedom,  the  Freedom  of  man's  intercourse  with  man. 
To  this  accusation,  wlfich  we  have  read  and  heard  oftener  than 
enough,  might  it  not  be  well  for  one  to  offer  the  flattest  contra- 
diction, and  plea  of  Not  at  all  guilty?  Not  that  conversation 
is  noted  down,  but  that  conversation  should  not  deserve  not- 
ing down,  is  the  evil.  Doubtless,  if  conversation  be  falsely 
recorded,  then  it  is  simply  a  Lie  ;  and  worthy  of  being  swept, 

C79) 


80  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

with  all  despatch,  to  the  Father  of  Lies.  But  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  conversation  can  be  authentically  recorded,  and  any  one 
is  ready  for  the  task,  let  him  by  all  means  proceed  with  it ;  let 
conversation  be  kept  in  remembrance  to  the  latest  date  pos- 
sible. Nay,  should  the  consciousness  that  a  man  may  be 
among  us  "taking  notes"  tend,  in  any  measure,  to  restrict 
those  floods  of  idle  insincere  speech,  with  which  the  thought  of 
mankind  is  well-nigh  drowned,  —  were  it  other  than  the  most 
indubitable  benefit? 

He  who  speaks  honestly  cares  not,  need  not  care,  though 
his  words  be  preserved  to  remotest  time.  For  him  who  speaks 
dishonestly,  the  fittest  of  all  punishments  seems  to  be  this 
same,  which  the  nature  of  the  case  provides.  The  dishonest 
speaker,  not  he  only  who  purposely  utters  falsehoods,  but  he 
who  does  not  purposeh',  and  with  sincere  heart,  utter  Truth, 
and  Truth  alone ;  who  babbles  he  knows  not  what,  and  has 
clapped  no  bridle  on  his  tongue,  but  lets  it  run  racket,  ejecting 
chatter  and  futility,  —  is  amoug  the  most  indisputable  male- 
factors omitted   or  inserted  in  the  Criminal  Calendar. 

To  him  that  will  well  consider  it,  idle  speaking  is  precisely  the 
beginning  of  all  Hollowness,  Halfness,  Infidelity  (want  of  Faith- 
fulness) ;  the  genial  atmosphere  in  which  rank  weeds  of  every 
kind  attain  the  mastery  over  noble  fruits  in  man's  life,  and 
utterly  choke  them  out :  one  of  the  most  crying  maladies  of  these 
days,  and  to  be  testified  against,  and  in  all  ways  to  the  utter- 
most withstood. 

Wise,  of  a  wisdom  far  beyond  our  shallow  depth,  was  that 
old  precept:  Watch  thy  tongue;  out  of  it  are  the  issues  of 
life  !  "  Man  is  properly  an  incarnated  tvord:"  the  word  tliat  he 
speaks  is  the  man  himself.  Were  eyes  put  into  our  head,  that 
we  might  see,  or  only  thr  .  we  might  fancy,  and  plansibly  ^re- 
tenu,  we  had  seen?  Was  the  tongue  suspended  there,  that  it 
might  tell  truly  what  we  had  seen,  and  make  man  the  soul' 
brother  of  man  ;  cr  only  that  it  might  utter  vain  sounds,  iargon 


THE   PETRIFIED   FERN.  81 

Bonl-confusing,  and  so  divide  man,  as  by  enchanted  walls  of 
Darkness,  from  union  with  man  ? 

Thou  who  wearest  that  cunning,  heaven-made  organ,  a 
Tongue,  think  well  of  this.  Speak  not,  I  passionately  entreat 
tliee,  till  thy  thought  have  silently  matured  itself,  till  thou  have 
other  than  mad  and  niad-niaking  noises  to  emit :  hold  thy  tongue 
(thou  hast  it  a-holding)  till  so^ne  meaning  lie  behind,  to  sot  it 
wagging. 

Consider  the  significance  of  Silence  :  it  is  boundless,  never 
by  meditating  to  be  exhausted,  unspeakably  profitable  to  thee  ! 
Cease  that  chaotic  hubbub,  wherein  thy  own  soul  runs  to  waste, 
to  confused  suicidal  dislocation  and  stupor  ;  out  of  Silence  comes 
thy  strength.  -'Speech  is  silvern,  Silence  is  golden  ;  Speech  is 
human,  Silence  is  divine." 

Fool !  thinkest   thou  that   because  no  Boswell  is  there  with 

ass-skin  and    blacklead  to  note  thy  jargon,  it  therefore  dies 

and  is  harmless?     Nothing  dies,  nothing   can  die.     No  idlest 

word  thou  speakest  but  is  a  seed  east  into  Time,  and  grows 

through  all  Eternity  !     The  Recording  Angel,  consider  it  well, 

is  no  fable,  but  the  truest  of  truths:  the  paper  tablets   thou 

canst  burn  ;  of  the  "  iron  leaf,"  there  is  no  burning.     Truly  if 

we  can  permit  God  Almighty  to  note  down  our  conversation, 

thinking  it  good  enough  for  Him,  —  any  poor  Boswell  need  not 

scruple  to  work  his  will  of  it. 

r.  Carlyl6. 


THE  PETEEFIED  YEM, 

IN  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 
Grew  a  little  fern  leaf,  green  and  slender, 
Veiuing  delicate  and  fibres  tender ; 
"Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low. 

Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass  grew  rouod  it, 
Playful  sUiJ^eams  darted  in  and  found  it. 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night,  and  crowned  It, 
;iJut  no  foot  of  rnan  e'er  trod  tliat  way; 
Eai'th  was  young,  and  keeping  holiday. 


82  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches, 
Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches, 

Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the  plain; 
Nature  revelled  in  grand  mysteries, 
But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these, 
Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and  trees  ; 
Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet  way, 
None  ever  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth  one  time  put  on  a  frolic  mood. 

Heaved  the  rocks  and  changed  the  mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean, 

Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wood, 

Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft  moist  clay,  — 
Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 
Oh,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  day  I 
Oh,  the  agony !     Oil,  life's  bitter  cost. 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost ! 

Useless?    Lost?    Thei'e  came  a  thoughtful  man, 
Searching  Nature's  secrets,  far  and  deep  ; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 

He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  pencillings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibres  clear  and  fine. 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line  ! 
So,  I  think,  God  hides  some  souls  away, 
Sweetly  to  surprise  us,  the  last  day. 


Anonumou!. 


APTON  WATER. 


TpLOW  gently,  sweet  Aftou,  among  thy  green  braes, 
-*-       Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  tliy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  .\fton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  deu. 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 


GLADNESS   OF   MORNING.  85 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills! 

Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills; 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  higli, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  ray  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below! 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow; 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides : 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  slie  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 

My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

£uma. 


GLADNESS  OF  MORNING. 

1    T  ASTE  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
-'— ^     Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  Cranks  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek,  — 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty: 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  uureprov^d  pleasures  free; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 
And  singing,  startle  the  dull  Night 


84  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  Dawn  doth" rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow 
Through  the  sweetbrier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 
Wliile  the  cock  Avith  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before; 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill; 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Eight  against  the  eastern  gate. 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight, 
While  the  plowman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale, 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
ti'om  V Allegro.  Milton 


GABRIEL,  THE  CONTENTED  LOCKSMITH. 

"PpROM  the  workshop  of  the  Golden  Key  there  issued  forth 
-■-  a  tinkling  sound,  so  merry  and  good-humored,  that  it  sug- 
gested the  idea  of  some  one  working  blithely,  and  made  quite 
pleasant  music.  No  man  who  hammered  on  at  a  didl  monoto- 
nou8  duty  could  have  brought  such  cheerful  notes  from  steel 
and  iion  ;  none  but  a  chirping,  healthy,  honest-hearted  fellow, 
who  made  the  best  of  everything,  and  felt  kindly  towards 
everybody,  could  have  done  it  for  an  instant.     He  might  hare 


GABRIEL,   THE   CONTENTED   LOCKSMITH.  85 

been  a  coppersmith,  and  still  been  musical.  If  he  had  sat  in  a 
jolting  wagon,  full  of  rods  of  iron,  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  hav9 
brought  some  harmony  out  of  it. 

Tink,  tink,  tink  —  clear  as  a  silver  bell,  and  audible  at  every 
pause  of  the  streets'  harsher  noises,  as  thougli  it  said,  "  I  don't 
care ;  nothing  puts  me  out ;  I  am  resolved  to  be  happy." 
"Women  scolded,  children  squalled,  heavy  carts  went  rumbling 
by,  horrible  cries  proceeded  from  the  lungs  of  hawkers ;  still  it 
struck  in  again,  no  higher,  no  lower,  no  louder,  no  softer ;  no\ 
thrusting  itself  on  people's  notice  a  bit  the  more  for  having 
been  outdone  by  louder  sounds —  tink,  tink,  tink,  tink,  tink. 

It  was  a  perfect  embodiment  of  the  still  small  voice,  free 
from  all  cold,  hoarseness,  huskiness,  or  unhealthiness  of  any 
kind  ;  foot-passengers  slackened  their  pace,  and  were  disposed 
to  linger  near  it ;  neighbors  who  had  got  up  splenetic  that 
morning  felt  good-humor  stealing  on  them  as  they  heard  it, 
and  by  degrees  became  quite  sprightly ;  mothers  danced  their 
babies  to  its  ringing ;  still  the  same  magical  tink,  tink,  tink, 
came  gayly  from  the  workshop  of  the  Golden  Key. 

"Who  but  the  locksmith  could  have  made  such  music?  A 
gleam  of  sun  shining  through  the  unsashed  window,  and 
checkering  the  dark  workshop  with  a  broad  patch  of  light,  fell 
full  upon  him,  as  though  attracted  by  liis  sunny  heart.  There 
he  stood  working  at  his  anvil,  his  face  all  radiant  with  exercise 
and  gladness,  his  sleeves  turned  up,  his  wig  pushed  ofif  his 
shining  forehead  —  the  easiest,  freest,  happiest  man  in  all  the 
world.  Beside  him  sat  a  sleek  cat,  purring  and  winking  in  the 
light,  and  falling  every  now  and  then  into  an  idle  doze,  as  from 
excess  of  comfort.  Toby  looked  on  from  a  tall  bench  hard  by  ; 
one  beaming  smile,  from  his  broad  nut-brown  face  down  to  the 
slack-baked  buckles  in  his  shoes.  The  very  locks  that  hung 
around  had  something  jovial  in  their  rust,  and  seemed,  like 
gouty  gentlemen  of  hearty  natures,  disposed  to  joke  on  their 
infirmities.     There  was  nothing  surly  or  severe  in  the  whoLe 


86  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

scene.  It  seemed  impossible  that  any  one  of  the  innnmeraMe 
keys  could  fit  a  churlish  strong-box  or  a  prison  door.  Rooms 
where  there  were  fires,  books,  gossip,  and  cheering  laughter  — 
these  were  their  proper  sphere  of  action.  Places  of  distrust, 
and  cruelty,  and  restraint,  they  would  have  left  quadruple 
locked  forever. 

Tink,  tink,  tink.  The  locksmith  paused  at  last,  and  wiped 
his  brow.  The  silence  roused  the  cat,  who,  jumping  softly 
down,  crept  to  the  door,  and  watched  with  tiger  eyes  a  bird- 
cage in  an  opposite  window. 

Then,  as  he  stood  upright,  with  his  head  flung  back,  and  his 
portly  chest  thrown  out,  you  would  have  seen  that  Gabriel's 
lower  man  was  clothed  in  military  gear.  Glancing  at  the  wall 
beyond,  there  might  have  been  espied,  hanging  on  their  several 
pegs,  a  cap  and  feather,  broadsword,  sash,  and  coat  of  scarlet ; 
which  any  man  learned  in  such  matters  would  have  known, 
from  their  make  and  pattern,  to  be  the  uniform  of  a  sergeant  in 
the  Royal  East  London  Volunteers. 

The  locksmith  glanced  at  these  articles  with  a  laughing  eye, 
and  looking  at  them  with  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  as  though 
he  would  get  them  all  into  a  focus,  said,  leaning  on  his  ham- 
mer: — 

"  Time  was,  now,  I  remember,  when  I  was  like  to  run  mad  witb 
the  desire  to  wear  a  coat  of  that  color.  If  any  one  (except  my 
father)  had  called  me  a  fool  for  my  pains,  how  I  should  have 
fired  and  fumed  !     But  what  a  fool  I  must  have  be«n  sure-ly !  *" 

Frxtm  Bamaby  Bud^e.  OKat.  IHcto«n». 

TEE  SEA. 
rpHE  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea, 
-^      The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free; 
Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 
It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round; 
It  plays  witii  tlio  clouds,  it  mocks  the  skies. 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 


THE    OWL   m  THE   GRAVEYARD.  87 

I'm  on  the  sea,  I'm  on  the  sea, 

I  am  Avhere  I  wouUl  ever  be, 

With  the  blue  above  and  the  blue  below^ 

And  silence  Avhcresoe'er  I  go. 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter?     I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh !  how^  I  love  to  ride 

On  the  flerce,  foaming,  bursting  tide. 

Where  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 

And  whistles  aloft  its  tempest  tune, 

And  tells  how  goeth  the  Avorld  below, 

And  why  the  southwest  wind  doth  blow  I 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore 

But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 

And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 

Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  her  mother's  nest,  — 

And  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me, 

For  I  was  bom  on  the  open  sea. 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn. 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born ; 

The  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled. 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild, 

As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child. 

I  have  lived,  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife. 

Fall  fifty  summers  a  rover's  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to  range, 

But  never  have  sought  or  sighed  for  change: 

And  death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me. 

Shall  come  on  the  wide,  unbounded  sea! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE  OWL  m  THE  GRAVEYARD. 

THE  Owl  is  the  Nimrod  of  the  Night.  Then,  like  one  who 
shall  be  nameless,  he  sails  about  seeking  those  whom  he 
may  devour.  Our  friend,  we  suspect,  though  no  drunkard, 
is  somewhat  of  a  glutton.  After  having  passed  a  pleasant 
night  in  eating  and  flirting,  he  goes  to  bed  betimes  about  four 


88  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

o'clock  in  the  morning ;  and  makes  a  blowing,  hissing  noise, 
resembling  the  snoring  of  a  man.  Indeed  nothing  can  be 
more  diverting  to  a  person  annoyed  by  blue  devils,  than  to 
look  at  a  White  Owl  and  his  wife  asleep.  With  their  heads 
gently  inclined  towards  each  other,  there  they  keep  snoring 
away  like  any  Christian  couple.  Should  the  one  make  a  pause, 
the  o'her  that  instant  awakes,  and,  fearing  something  may  be 
wio.^  with  his  spouse,  opens  a  pair  of  glimmering,  winking  eyes, 
and  inspects  the  adjacent  physiognomy  with  the  scrutinizing 
stare  of  a  village  apothecary.  If  all  be  right,  the  concert  is 
resumed,  the  snore  sometimes  degenerating  into  a  sort  of 
snivel,  and  the  snivel  into  a  blowing  hiss.  First  time  we  heard 
this  noise  was  in  a  church-yard  when  we  were  mere  boys,  having 
ventured  in  after  dark  to  catch  the  minister's  colt  for  a  gallop 
over  to  the  parish  capital,  where  there  was  a  dancing-school 
ball.  There  had  been  a  nest  of  Owls  in  some  hole  in  the  spire  ; 
but  we  never  doubted  for  a  moment  that  the  noise  of  snoring, 
blowing,  hissing,  and  snapping  proceeded  from  a  test^'  old 
gentleman  that  had  been  buried  tha,t  forenoon,  and  had  come 
alive  again  a  day  after  the  fair.  Had  we  reasoned  the  mattei 
a  little,  we  must  soon  have  convinced  ourselves  that  there  was 
no  ground  for  alarm  to  us  at  least ;  for  the  noise  was  like  that 
of  some  one  half  stifled,  and  little  likely  to  heave  up  from  above 
him  a  six-feet-deep  load  of  earth  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
improbability  of  his  being  able  to  unscrew  the  cofBn  from  the 
inside.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  cleared  about  a  dozen  of  decent 
tombstones  at  three  jumps  ;  the  fourth  took  us  over  a  wall  five 
feet  high  within  and  about  fifteen  without,  and  landed  us,  with 
a  squash,  in  a  cabbage-garden,  enclosed  on  the  other  three 
sides  by  a  house  and  a  holly-hedge.  The  house  was  the  sex- 
ton's, who,  apprehending  the  tumult  to  proceed  from  a  resurrec- 
tionary  surgeon  mistaken  in  his  latitude,  thrust  out  a  long 
duck-gun  from  a  window  in  the  thatch,  and  roared  he  would 
blow  out  our  brains  if  we  did  not  instantly  surrender  ourselves, 


YE  MARINERS   OF  ENGLAND.  89 

and  deliver  up  the  corpse.  It  was  in  vain  to  cry  out  our  name, 
which  he  knew  as  well  as  his  own.  He  was  deaf  to  reason, 
and  would  not  withdraw  his  fowling-piece  till  we  had  laid  down 
the  corpse.  Fie  declared  tliat  he  saw  the  sack  in  the  moon- 
light. This  was  a  horse-cloth  with  which  we  had  intended  to 
saddle  the  "  colt,"  and  that  had  remained,  during  the  super- 
natural agency  under  which  we  labored,  clutched  unconsciously 
and  convulsively  in  our  grasp.  Long  was  it  ere  Davie  Donald 
would  see  us  in  our  true  light ;  but  at  length  he  drew  on  his 
nightcap,  and  coming  out  with  a  light,  let  us  through  the  trance 
and  out  of  the  front  door,  thoroughly  convinced  that  old  South- 
field  was  not  dead,  although  in  a  very  bad  way  indeed.  Let 
this  be  a  lesson  to  school-boys  not  to  neglect  the  science  of 
natural  history,  and  to  study  the  character  of  the  White  Owl. 

From  Becreaiiona  of  Christopher  North.  John  Wilson. 


YE  MAKDraES  OF  ENGLAND. 
V/"  E  mariners  of  England, 
-*-       That  guard  our  native  seas; 
"Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe, 
Anrl  sweep  through  the  deep, 

"Wliile  the  stormy  winds  do  blow : 
While  tlie  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ; 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave. 
Wliere  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell. 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
Wliile  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


90  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
"With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below. 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  Avinds  do  blow; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell 

TO  A  BKTLARK. 
"T~rAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit !  — bird  thou  never  wert,  — 
-'-  ■*-    That  from  heaven,  or  near  it,  pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still,  and  higher,  from  the  earth  thou  eprlngest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire ;  the  blue  deep  thou  wlngest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soax,  and  soaring,  ever  singetjt. 

In  the  golden  lightening  of  the  sunken  sun, 

O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening,  thou  dost  float  and  r>in> 

Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  Is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even  melts  around  thy  flight: 
Like  a  star  of  heaven  in  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yot  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows  of  that  silver  sphere, 
Wlioso  intense  lamp  narrows  in  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  harilly  see,  wo  feel  that  It  ia  there. 


TO   A  SKYLARK.  91 

All  the  earth  and  air  with  thy  voice  Is  loud, 

As,  when  night  is  hare,  from  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thon  art  we  know  not :  what  is  most  lilie  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not  drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  liidden  in  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden,  till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

Like  a  high-born  maiden  in  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden  soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden  in  a  doll  of  dew, 

Scattering  imbeliolden  its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view. 

Like  a  rose  embowered  in  its  own  green  leaves. 

By  warm  winds  deflowered,  till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-wingfed  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers  on  the  twinkling  grass, 

Rain-awakcncd  flowers,  all  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird,  what  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard  praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal,  or  triumphal  chant, 

Matched  with  thine  would  be  all  but  an  empty  vaunt  — 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains  of  thy  happy  strain? 

What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains?  what  shapes  of  sk}'  or  plain! 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joj'ance,  languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance  never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  iovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 


92  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Waking  or  asleep,  thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep  than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after,  and  pine  for  what  is  not : 

Our  sincerest  laughter  with  some  pain  is  fraught : 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn  hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 

If  we  were  things  born  not  to  shed  a  tear, 

I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  could  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures  of  delight  and  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures  that  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness  that  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness  from  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


Shelleff, 


T 


TWENTT-rOUETH  PSALM. 

ALL. 

HE  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof, 


The  world  and  they  that  dwell  therein; 
For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas, 
And  established  it  upon  the  floods. 

FIRST  cnoiR. 
Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord? 
And  who  shall  stand  in  his  holy  place? 

SECOXD  CHOm 

He  that  hath  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart; 
Who  hath  not  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity, 
And  hath  not  sworn  deceitfully. 

ALL. 

He  shall  receive  a  blessing  from  the  Lo\-d, 
And  righteousness  from  the  God  of  his  salvation. 
This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  after  him. 
That  seek  thy  faoc,  O  God  of  Jacob. 


TO   MARY   IN   HEAVEN,  93 

MX.  WITHOUT. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates! 

And  be  yc  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors  I 

And  tlie  King  of  Glory  shall  come  In. 

CUOIR  WITHIN. 

Who  is  the  King  of  Glory? 

CHOIU   WITHOUT. 

The  Lord  strong  and  mighty; 
The  Lord  mighty  in  battle. 

CHOIR  WITHOUT. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates! 

Yea,  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors  I 

And  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  In. 

CHOIR  WITHIN. 

Who  Is  this  King  of  Glory? 

ALL   WITHOUT. 

The  Lord  of  Hosts,  He  is  the  Kiug  of  Glory. 


TO  MART  IN  HEAVEN. 

THOU  lingering  star,  with  Icss'ning  ray. 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary !  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  f 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget? 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past; 
Thy  Image  at  our  last  embrace; 

Ah  I  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last. 


34  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Ayr  gurgling  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick'ning  green  i 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twin'd  am'rous  round  the  raptur'd  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  ev'i-y  spray,  — . 
TiU  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  I 
Time  but  th'  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary !  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  blissful  place  of  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


Bums, 


TEE  VOTAaE. 


r  I  ^O  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has  to 
-'-  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary  absence 
of  worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of  mind 
peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.  The 
vast  space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a 
blank  page  in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition  by 
which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one 
country  blend  almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  another. 
From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all 
is  vacancy,  until  you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  ar« 
launched  at  once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another  world. 
In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene,  and  a 
connected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that  carry  on 
the  story  of  iife,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separation. 
But  a  wide  sea  voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us  con- 
scious of  being  cast  loose  from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled 
life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a  doubtful  world.     It  interposes  a 


TBE  VOYAGE.  9ft 

gulf,  not  merely  imaginary,  but  real,  between  us  and  our 
homes  —  a  gulf  subject  to  tempest,  and  fear,  and  uncertainty, 
that  makes  distance  palpable,  and  return  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the  last 
blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in  the  hori- 
zon, it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the  world  and 
its  concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation,  before  I  opened 
another. 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy  ;  I  should  correct  the  expres- 
sion. To  one  given  to  day  di-eaming,  and  fond  of  losing  him- 
self in  reveries,  a  sea  voj^age  is  full  of  subject  for  meditation  ; 
but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep  and  of  the  air,  and 
rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I 
delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter  railing  or  climb  to  the  main- 
top, of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tran- 
quil bosom  of  a  summer  sea ;  —  to  gaze  upon  the  piles  of 
golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon  ;  fancy  them  some 
fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my  own;  — 
to  watch  the  gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver 
volumes  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

We  oue  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a 
distance.  At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the 
surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be  the 
mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely  wrecked ;  for 
there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some  of 
the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent  their 
being  washed  off  by  the  waves. 

There  was  no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be 
ascertained.  The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many 
months  ;  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long 
sea-weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought  I,  are  the 
crew?  Their  struggle  has  long  been  over.  They  have  gone 
down  amidst  the  roar  of  the  tempest.  Their  bones  lie  whiten- 
ing among  the  caverns  of  the  deep.     Silence,  obli%'iou,  like  the 


96  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

waves,  have  dosed  over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of 
their  end. 

"What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship  !  what  prayers 
offered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home  !  How  often  has  the 
wife,  the  mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some 
casual  intelligence  of  this  rover  of  the  deep  !  How  has  expec- 
tation darkened  into  anxiety,  anxiety  into  dread,  and  dread  into 
despair  !  Alas  !  not  one  memento  shall  ever  return  for  love  to 
cherish.  All  that  shall  ever  be  known  is,  that  she  sailed  from 
her  port,  "  and  was  never  heard  of  more." 

The  sight  of  the  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dismal 
anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  evening  when 
the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to  look  wild 
and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of  those  eudden 
storms  which  wiU  sometimes  break  in  upon  the  serenity  of  a 
summer  voyage. 

As  we  sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  cabin,  that 
made  the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  ship- 
wreck and  disaster.  I  was  particularly  sti-uck  with  a  short  one 
related  by  the  captain. 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  in  a  fine  stout  ship 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs, 
which  prevail  in  those  parts,  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to 
see  far  ahead  even  in  the  daytime ;  but  at  night  the  weather 
was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at  twice 
the  length  of  the  ship. 

"  I  kept  lights  at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  for- 
ward to  look  out  for  fishing  smacks,  which  are  accustomed  to 
lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smacking 
breeze,  and  we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the  water. 
Suddenly  the  watcli  gave  the  alarm  of  '  A  sail  ahead  ! '  It  was 
scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon  her. 

"She  was  a  small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her  broadside 
toward   us.      The    crew   were    all   asleep,    and  had  neglected 


THE    SPINNING-WHEEL   SONG.  97 

to  hoist  a  light.  "We  struck  her  just  amidships.  The  force, 
the  size,  and  weight  of  our  vessel  bore  lier  down  below  the 
waves.     We  passed  over  her,  and  were  hurried  on  our  course. 

"  As  the  crashing  wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a 
glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked  wretches  rushing  from  her 
cabin.  They  just  started  from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed 
shrieking  by  the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning  cry  mingling 
with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our  ears  swept  us  out 
of  all  further  hearing.     I  shall  never  forget  that  cry. 

"  It  was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship  about,  she 
was  under  such  headway.  "We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could 
guess,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised 
about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  several 
guns,  and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors. 
But  all  was  silent ;  we  never  saw  nor  heard  anything  of  them 

I^O^S*  Washi7igton  Irving, 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 

"ly /I  ELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning; 

-^^     Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning; 

Bent  o'er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 

Is  croaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting. 

"  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." 

"  'T  is  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping." 

"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 

"  'T  is  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dying." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot's  stirring} 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

•'What's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  window,  I  wonder?* 
"  'T  is  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under." 
"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  j'our  stool  on, 
And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  '  The  Coolun'  ?  " 
There 's  a  form  at  the  casement,  — the  form  of  her  true  love,  — • 
Aixd  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "  I  'ra  waiting  for  you,  love; 


98  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly; 

We  '11  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon 's  shining  brightly ." 

Merril}-,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's  stirring ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing. 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her  fingers. 

Steals  up  from  her  seat,  —  longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers ; 

A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother, 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with  the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps,  —  then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Slower,  and  slower,  and  slower  the  wheel  swings ; 

Lower,  and  lower,  and  lower  the  reel  rings  ; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stop  their  ringing  and  moving, 

Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moonlight  are  roving. 

John  Francis  Waller. 


THE  CHUECH  OF  BROU. 
(The  Castle.) 

DOWN  the  Savoy  valleys  sounding, 
Echoing  round  this  castle  old, 
"Mid  the  distant  mountain-chalets, 

Hark !     What  bell  for  church  is  toll'd? 

In  the  bright  October  morning 

Savoy's  duke  had  left  his  bride. 
From  the  castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 

Flow'd  the  hunters'  merry  tide. 
Steeds  are  neighing,  gallants  glittering, 

Gay  her  smiling  lord  to  greet, 
From  her  muUion'd  chamber-casement 

Smiles  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

From  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Hen;  she  came,  a  brido,  in  spring. 

Now  tlic  autumn  crisps  the  forest; 
Uimters  gather,  bugles  ring. 


THE   CHURCH    OF   BROU.  90 

Hounds  arc-  pulling,  prickers  swearing, 

Horses  fret,  and  boar-spears  glance. 
Off,  —  they  sweep  the  marshy  forests, 

Westward  on  the  side  of  France. 

Hark !  the  game 's  on  foot ;  they  scatter,  ~ 

Down  the  forest-ridings  lone, 
Furious,  single  horsemen  gallop. 

Hark  !  a  shout,  —  a  crash,  —  a  groan. 

Pale  and  breathless  came  the  hunters  — 

On  the  turf  dead  lies  the  boar. 
Ah  I  the  duke  lies  stretched  beside  him 

Senseless,  weltering  in  his  gore. 

In  the  dull  October  evening, 

Down  the  leaf-strcwu  forest-road. 
To  the  castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 

Came  the  hunters  with  their  load. 

In  the  hall,  with  sconces  blazing. 

Ladies  waiting  round  her  seat, 
Clothed  in  smiles,  beneath  the  dais 

Sate  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

Hark  !  below  the  gates  unbarring. 

Tramp  of  men,  and  quick  commands. 
"  'T  is  my  lord  come  back  from  hunting," -r. 

And  the  duchess  claps  her  hands. 

Slow  and  tired  came  the  hunters ; 

Stopp'd  in  darkness  in  the  court. 
**  Ho!  this  way,  j^e  laggard  hunters. 

To  the  hall.     What  sport !  what  sport ! " 

Slow  they  entered  with  their  master ; 

In  the  hall  they  laid  him  down. 
On  his  coat  were  leaves  and  blood-stains, 

On  his  brow  an  angry  frown. 

Dead  her  princely  youthful  husband 

Lay  before  his  youthful  wife, 
Bloody  'neath  the  flaring  sconces : 

And  the  sifht  froze  all  her  life. 


100  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

In  Vieuna,  by  the  Danube, 

Kings  hold  revel,  gallants  meet. 

Gay  of  old  amid  the  gayest 

"Was  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

In  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Feast  and  dance  her  youth  beguiles  i 

Till  that  hour  she  never  sorrow'd, 
But  from  then  she  never  smiled. 

'Mid  the  Savoy  mountain-valleys, 
Far  from  town  or  haunt  of  man, 

Stands  a  lonely  church,  unfinished, 
Which  the  Duchess  Maud  began ; 

Old,  that  duchess  stern  began  it, 
In  gray  age,  with  palsied  hands; 

But  she  died  while  it  was  building. 
And  the  church  unflnish'd  stands  — 

Stands  as  erst  the  builders  left  it, 
Wlien  she  sank  into  her  grave  : 

Mountain  greensward  paves  the  chancel^ 
Harebells  flower  in  the  nave. 

"  In  my  castle  all  is  sorrow," 

Said  the  Duchess  Marguerite  then; 

"  Guide  me,  some  one,  to  the  mountain, 
We  will  build  the  church  again." 

Sandall'd  palmers,  faring  homeward, 
Austrian  knights  from  Syria  came. 

"  Austrian  wanderers  bring,  O  warders, 
Homage  to  your  Austrian  dame." 

From  the  gate  the  warders  answer'd : 
"  Gone,  O  knights,  is  she  you  knew. 

Dead  our  duke,  and  gone  his  duchess; 
Seek  her  at  the  Church  of  Brou." 

Austrian  knights  and  much  worn  palmers 
Climl)  the  winding  mountain  way, 

Reach  the  valley,  where  the  fabric 
Rises  higher  day  by  day. 


SNOBS.  101 


Stones  are  sawing,  hammers  ringing,— 
On  the  work  the  bright  sun  shines,  — 

In  the  Savoy  mountain-meadows. 
By  the  stream,  below  the  pines. 

On  her  palfrey  white  the  duchess 

Sate  and  watch'd  her  working  train,  — » 

Flemish  carvers,  Lombard  gilders, 
German  masons,  smiths  from  Spain. 

Clad  in  black,  on  her  white  palfrey. 

Her  old  architect  beside,  — 
There  they  found  her  in  the  mountains. 

Morn  and  noon  and  eventide. 

There  she  sate  and  watch'd  the  builders, 
Till  the  church  was  roof'd  and  done. 

Last  of  all,  the  builders  rear'd  her 
In  the  nave  a  tomb  of  stone. 

On  the  tomb  two  forms  they  sculptured, 
Lifelike  in  tlie  marl)le  pale,  — 

One,  the  duke  in  helm  and  armor ; 
One,  the  duchess  in  her  veil. 

Round  the  tomb  the  carved  stone  fret-work 

Was  at  Easter-tide  put  on  : 
Then  the  duchess  closed  her  labors; 

And  she  died  at  the  St.  John. 


Am/tld. 


SNOBS. 
npHERE  are  relative  and  positive  Snobs.  I  mean  b}'  posi- 
-L  live,  such  persons  as  are  Snobs  everywhere  in  all 
companies,  from  morning  till  night,  from  3'outh  to  the  grave, 
being  by  Nature  endowed  with  Snobbishness  ;  and  others  who 
are  Snobs  only  in  certain  circumstances  and  relations  of  life. 

For  instance  :  t  once  knew  a  man  who  committed  before  me 
an  act  most  atrocious.  I  once,  I  say,  knew  a  man,  who,  dining 
in  my  company  at  the  Europa  Coffee  House,  ate  peas  with  the 
assistance  of  his  knife.  Ho  was  a  person  with  whose  society  I 
was  greatly  pleased  at  first ;  a  man  of  great  powers,  excellent 


102  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

heart,  and  varied  information  ;  but  I  had  never  before  seen  him 
with  a  dish  of  peas,  and  his  conduct  in  regard  to  them  caused 
me  the  deepest  pain^ 

After  having  seen  him  thus  publicly  comport  himself,  but  one 
course  was  open  to  me  —  to  cut  his  acquaintance.  I  commis- 
sioned a  mutual  friend  (the  Honorable  Poly  Anthus)  to  break 
the  matter  to  this  gentleman  as  delicately  as  possible,  and  to 
say  that  painful  cu'cumstauces  —  in  nowise  affecting  Mr.  Mar- 
rowfat's honor,  cr  my  esteem  for  him  —  had  occurred,  which 
obliged  me  to  forego  my  intimacy  with  him  ;  and  accordingly 
we  met,  and  gave  each  other  the  cut  direct  that  night  at  the 
Djjchess  of  Monte  Fiasco's  ball, 

^Everybody  at  Naples  remarked  the  separation  of  the  Damon 
and  Pythias,  —  indeed.  Marrowfat  had  saved  my  life  more  than 
once,  —  but,  as  an  English  gentleman,  what  was  I  to  do  ?j 

My  dear  friend  was,  in  this  instance,  the  Snob  rslaUve.  It 
is  not  snobbish  of  persons  of  rank  of  anj'  other  nation  to 
employ  their  knife  in  the  manner  alluded  to.  I  have  seen 
Monte  Fiasco  clean  his  trencher  with  his  knife,  and  every 
Principe  in  company  doing  likewise.  1  have  seen  at  the 
hospitable  Board  of  H.  I.  H.  the  Grand  Duchess  Stephanie 
of  Baden  —  (who,  if  these  humble  lines  should  come  under  her 
Imperial  e^^es,  is  besought  to  remember  graciously  the  most 
devoted  of  her  servants)  —  I  have  seen,  I  say,  the  Hereditary 
Princess  of  Potztausend-Donnerwettcr  (that  serenely  beautiful 
woman)  use  her  knife  in  lieu  of  a  fork  or  a  spoon  ;  I  have  seen, 
her  almost  swallow  it,  by  Jove  !  like  Ramo  Samee,  the  Indian 
juggler.  And  did  I  blench?  Did  my  estimation  for  the 
Princess  diminish?  No,  lovely  Amalia !  One  of  the  truest 
passious  that  ever  was  inspired  by  woman  w^s  raised  in  this 
bosom  by  that  lady.  Beautiful  one !  Long,  long  may  the 
knifo  carry  food  to  tliose  lips  !  the  reddest  and  the  loveliest  in 
the  world  ! 

iThe cause  of  my  quaiTel  with  Marrowfat  I  never  breathed  to 
V 


SNOBS.  103 

mortal  soul  for  four  j^ears.  We  met  in  the  halls  of  the  aristoc- 
racy—  our  friends  and  relatives.  "We  jostled  each  other  in  the 
dance  or  at  the  board  ;  but  the  estrangement  continued,  until 
the  fourth  of  June,  last  year. 

"VYe  met  at  Sir  George  Golloper's.  "We  were  placed,  he  on 
the  right,  your  humble  servant  on  the  left  of  the  admirable 
Lady  G.  Peas  formed  part  of  the  banquet  —  ducks  and  green 
peas.  I  trembled  as  I  saw  Marrowfat  helped,  and  turned 
away  sickening,  lest  I  should  behold  the  weapon  darting  down 
his  horrid  jaws. 

What  was  my  astonishment,  what  my  delight,  when  I  saw 
him  use  his  fork  like  any  other  Christian  !  He  did  not  admin- 
ister the  cold  steel  once.  Old  times  rushed  back  upon  me  — 
the  remembrance  of  old  services,  his  lending  me  the  seven- 
teen hundred  pounds.  I  almost  burst  into  tears  with  joy  —  my 
voice  trembled  with  emotion.  "  George,  my  boy  !  "  I  exclaimed, 
"  George  Marrowfat,  my  dear  fellow  !  a  glass  of  wine."^ 

Blushing  —  deeply  moved  —  almost  as  tremulous  as  I  was  my- 
self, George  answered,  "  Frank,  shall  it  be  Hock  or  Madeira?" 
I  could  have  hugged  him  to  my  heart  but  for  the  presence  of 
the  company.  Little  did  Lady  Golloper  know  what  was  the 
cause  of  the  emotion  which  sent  the  duckling  I  was  carving 
into  her  ladyship's  pink  satin  lap.  The  most  good-natured  of 
women  pardoned  the  error,  and  the  butler  removed  the  bird. 

We  have  been  the  closest  of  friends  ever  since,  nor,  of 
course,  has  George  repeated  his  odious  habit.  He  acquired  it 
at  a  country  school,  where  they  cultivated  peas  and  only  used 
two-pronged  forks,  and  it  was  only  by  living  on  the  Continent, 
where  tlie  use  of  tlie  four  prong  is  general,  thai  he  lost  the 
horrible  custom. 

By  the  way,  as  some  readers  are  dull  of  comprehension,  I  may 
as  well  say  what  the  moral  of  this  history  is.  The  moral  is 
this:  Society  having  ordained  certain  customs,  men  are  bound 
to  obey  the  law  of  society,  and  conform  to  its  hannless  orders. 


104  CTLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

If  I  should  go  to  the  British  aud  Foreign  Institute  (and 
heaven  forbid  I  should  go  under  any  pretext  or  in  any  costume 
whatever)  —  if  I  should  go  to  one  of  the  tea  parties  in  a  dress- 
ing-gown and  slippers,  and  not  in  the  usual  attire  of  a  gentle- 
man, viz.,  pumps,  a  gold  waistcoat,  a  crush  hat,  a  sham  frill, 
and  a  white  choker  —  I  should  be  insulting  society,  and  eating 
peas  with  my  knife.  Let  the  porters  of  the  Institute  hustle  out 
the  individual  who  shall  so  offend.  Such  an  offender  is,  as 
regards  society,  a  most  emphatical  and  refractory  Snob.  It 
has  its  code  and  police  as  well  as  governments,  and  he  must 
conform  who  would  profit  by  the  decrees  set  forth  for  their 
common  comfort. 

Book  of  Snobs,  William  Maktpeace  Thackeray. 


THE  THEEE  BLACK  CE0W8. 
rpWO  honest  tradesmen,  meeting  in  the  Strand, 
-*-      One  took  tlie  other  briskly  by  the  hand. 
"  Hark  ye,"  said  he,  "'tis  an  odd  story  this, 
About  the  crows!"  —  "I  don't  know  what  it  is," 
Replied  his  friend. 

"No!   I'm  surprised  at  that; 
Where  I  come  from  it  is  the  common  chat. 
But  you  shall  hear,  —  an  odd  affair  indeed! 
And  that  it  happened,  they  are  all  agreed. 
Not  to  detain  you  from  a  thing  so  strange,  — 
A  gentleman  that  lives  not  far  from  'Change, 
This  week,  in  short  (as  all  the  alley  knows), 
Taking  a  dose,  has  thrown  up  three  black  crows!" 

••  Impossible !  "  —  "  Nay,  but  it 's  really  true ; 
I  have  it  from  good  hands,  and  so  may  you." 
"From  whose,  I  pray?"    So,  having  named  tho  man. 
Straight  to  inquire,  his  curious  conu'ade  ran. 

"Sir,  did  you  tell?"  relating  tho  affair. 
"Yes,  sir,  I  did;  and,  if  it's  worth  your  care, 
Ask  Mr.  Such-a-one;  he  told  it  me;  — 


THE   LARK.  10# 

Bat,  by  the  by,  'twas  two  black  crows,  not  three.** 
Resolved  to  trace  so  wondrous  an  event. 
Whip  to  the  third,  the  virtuoso  went. 

<«  Sir,"  — and  so  forth,  —  "  Why,  yes,  the  thing  is  fact, 

Though  in  regard  to  number  not  exact; 

It  was  not  two  black  crows,  —  'twas  only  one;  — 

The  truth  of  that  you  may  depend  upon : 

The  gentleman  himself  told  me  the  case." 

•'Where  may  I  find  him?  "— "  Why,  —  in  such  a  place." 

Away  he  goes,  and  having  found  him  out,  — 

"Sir,  be  so  good  as  to  resolve  a  doubt." 

Then  to  his  last  informant  he  referred, 

And  begged  to  know  if  true  what  he  had  heard. 

Did  you,  sir,  throw  up  a  black  crow?"  —  "Not  11" 

"Bless  me!  how  people  propagate  a  lie  I 

Black  crows  have  been  thrown  up,  three,  two,  and  one, 

And  here  I  find,  at  last,  all  comes  to  none ! 

"Did  you  say  nothing  of  a  crow  at  all?" 

"Crow?  — crow?  —  perhaps  I  might,  now  I  recall 

The  matter  over." —  "  And  pray,  sir,  what  was 't?  * 

"Why,  I  was  horrid  sick,  and,  at  the  last, 

T  did  throw  up  (and  told  my  neighbor  so) 

Something  that  was  as  black,  sir,  as  a  crow." 

John  Byrom 


THE  LAEK. 


"DIRD  of  the  wilderness, 

-*-^     Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  leal 

Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place : 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  I 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud,  — 
Love  gives  it  energy ;   love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing. 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven;  thy  love  is  on  earth. 


106  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  dayj 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place. 

Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

James  Si»fff. 

LOOHUnTAE. 
/^\  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West,  — 
^-^  Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  besti 
And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none,  — 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  River  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 

'Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all: 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 

♦'  O,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Locliinvar?" 

•'  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  —  my  suit  you  denied; -« 
Love  swells  like  the  Sol  way,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide; 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  brid«  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 


BRUCE'S   ADDRESS.  107 

•The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure !  "  said  young  Lochinyar. 

Bo  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a galliard  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

A.nd  the  liridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'T  were  better  by  far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 

"  She  is  won!  we  are  gone!  over  bank,  bush,  and  scar; 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan ; 

Forsters,  Fcnwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran; 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannol)ie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Sir  Waller  Scott. 


BEUOE'S  ADDRESS. 


A    T  Bannockburn  the  English  lay, 
-^-^    Tlie  Scots  they  were  na  far  away, 
But  waited  for  the  break  o'  day 

That  glinted  in  the  east. 

But  soon  the  sun  broke  through  the  heath, 
And  lighted  up  that  field  o*  death, 
When  Bruce,  wi'  soul-inspiring  breath, 
His  heralds  thus  addressed  : 


*Tb«  first  sight  lines  of  this  poem  were  written  by  Sir  Walter  Seott. 


108  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

"Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  ■\vham  Bruce  has  often  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory. 

"Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edwai'd's  power  — 
Chains  and  slavery. 

"Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave, 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave, 
Wlia  sae  base  as  be  a  slave, 

Let  him  turn  and  flee. 

"Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law, 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me. 

**  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains, 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains, 
We  will  draw  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  l)e  free. 

'*Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low. 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe, 
Liberty's  in  every  blow. 

Let  us  do  or  die.* 


Bfim*. 


A  LEGEND  OF  EREGENZ. 
/^  IRT  round  with  rugged  mountains  the  fair  Lake  Constance  lies; 


yjr 


In  her  blue  heart  reflected  .shine  back  the  starry  skies ; 


And  watching  eacli  white  cloudlet  float  silently  and  slow. 
You  think  a  piece  of  heaven  lies  on  our  earth  below! 

Midnight  Is  there ;  and  Silence  enthroned  in  Heaven,  looks  down 

Upon  her  own  calm  mirror,  upon  a  sleeping  town ; 

For  Bregcnz,  that  quaint  city  upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 

Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance,  a  thousand  years  and  more. 


A  LEGEND   OF   BREGENZ.  lUy 

Her  battlements  and  towers,  from  off  their  rocky  steep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadows  for  ages  on  the  deep ; 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley,  a  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night,  three  hundred  years  430. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred,  a  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  toil  for  daily  bread ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted  so  silently  and  fast 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her  the  memory  of  the  past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters,  nor  asked  for  rest  or  change  ; 

Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones,  their  speech  seemed  do  mote 

strange ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle  to  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder  on  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz,  with  longing  and  with  tears; 
Her  Tj'rol  home  seemed  faded  in  a  deep  mist  of  years ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors  of  Austrian  war  or  strife ; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented  to  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children  would  clustering  round  her  stand, 
She  sang  them  the  old  ballads  of  her  own  native  laud ; 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening  she  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood  rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt :  the  valley  mo!»e  peaceful  year  by  year ; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents  of  some  great  deed  seemed  neax. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending  upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
"While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields,  paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered,  with  looks  cast  on  the  ground ; 
"With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one,  the  women  gathered  round  ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning,  or  work,  was  put  away : 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid  to  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow,  with  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing,  the  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching  a  strange,  uncertain  gleam. 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees  that  <5tood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled,  then  care  and  doubt  were  fled ; 
"With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted*  the  board  was  nobly  spread. 


110  CLASSIC  SELECTI0N1S. 

The  elder  of  the  village  rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 

And  cried,  "We  drink  the  downfall  of  an  accursed  land! 

*'  The  night  is  growing  darker,  ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foeman's  stronghold,  Bregenz  shall  be  our  own!' 
The  women  shrank  in  terror  (yet  pride,  too,  had  her  part), 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden  felt  death  within  her  heart. 

Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz ;  once  more  her  towers  arose ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  ?    Only  her  country's  foes ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk,  the  days  of  childhood  flown. 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains,  reclaimed  her  as  their  own ! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her  (though  shouts  rang  forth  again) , 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  A^alleys,  the  pasture  and  the  plain ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision,  and  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz,  and  then,  if  need  be,  die !  " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless,  with  noiseless  step  she  sped, 
Horses  and  weary  cattle  were  standing  in  the  shed ; 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger,  that  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head  toward  her  native  land. 

Out  —  out  into  the  darkness  —  faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 
The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her,  the  chestnut  wood  is  passed ; 
She  looks  up ;  the  clouds  are  heavy :  why  is  her  steed  so  slow?  — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them  can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"  Faster !  "  she  cries,  '*  oh,  faster !  "    Eleven  the  church  bells  chime; 
"  O  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz,  and  bring  me  there  in  time !  " 
But  louder  than  bells  ringing,  or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight  the  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters  their  headlong  gallop  check? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror,  she  leans  upon  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness;  the  bank  is  higli  and  steep; 
One  pause  —  he  staggers  forward,  and  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  darkness,  and  looser  throws  the  rein; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters  that  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly,  he  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And.  lute  —  in  the  far  distance,  shine  oat  the  lights  of  home  1 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   SPRING.  IH 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  bears  her,  and  now  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz,  tliat  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz,  just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier  to  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved !     Ere  daylight  her  battlements  are  manned ; 
Defiance  greets  the  army  that  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic  should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor  the  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished,  and  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises,  to  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women  sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving  the  Charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz,  by  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long,  and  calls  each  passing  hour ; 
"Nine,"  "ten,"  "eleven,"  he  cries  aloud,  and  then,  (O  crown  of 

fame !) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies  he  calls  the  maiden's  name. 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EAELT  SPEINa. 

T  HEARD  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
-*-      While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  w'orks  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Thro*  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower 

The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths; 
And  't  is  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure; 

Bnt  the  least  motion  which  they  made. 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 


112  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan. 
To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 

And  I  must  thlnli,  do  all  I  can. 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  Heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 

Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man? 


Wordsworth, 


PEEOEATION  OF  OPENING  SPEECH  AGAINST  HASTINGS. 

TN  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England,  I  charge  all  this 
-■-  villany  upon  "Warren  Hastings,  in  this  last  moment  of  my 
application  to  yon. 

My  Lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a  great  act  of 
national  justice?  Do  we  want  a  cause,  my  Lords?  You  have 
the  cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone  women  of  the  first 
rank,  of  desolated  provinces,  and  of  wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  Lords?  When  was  there  so 
much  iniquity  ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one  ?  No,  my 
Lords,  you  must  not  look  to  punish  any  other  such  delinquent 
from  India.  Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  substance  enough 
in  India  to  nourish  such  another  delinquent. 

My  Lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want?  You  have  before 
you  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain  as  prosecutors ;  and  I 
believe,  my  Lords,  that  the  sun,  in  his  beneficent  progress 
round  the  world,  does  not  behold  a  more  glorious  sight  than 
that  of  men,  separated  from  a  remote  people  by  the  material 
bounds  and  barriers  of  nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a  social 
and  moral  community  —  all  the  Commons  of  England  resent- 
ing, as  their  own,  the  indignities  and  cruelties,  that  are  offered 
to  ail  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  My  Lords,  no  example  of  antiquity, 
nothing  in  the  modern  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human 


OPENING  SPEECH  AGAINST  HASTINGS.  118 

Imagination,  can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  like  this.  My 
Lords,  here  we  see  virtually,  in  the  mind's  eye,  that  sacred 
majesty  of  the  Crown,  under  whose  authority  you  sit  and 
whose  power  you  exercise. 

We  have  here  all  the  branches  of  the  royal  family,  in  a  situa- 
tion between  majesty  aud  subjection,  between  the  sovereign 
and  the  subject  —  offering  a  pledge,  in  that  situation,  for  the 
support  of  the  rights  of  the  Crown  and  the  liberties  of  the 
people,  both  which  extremities  they  touch. 

My  Lords,  we  have  a  great  hereditary  peerage  here ;  those 
who  have  their  own  honor,  the  honor  of  their  ancestors,  and  of 
their  posterity,  to  guard,  and  who  will  justify,  as  they  always 
have  justified,  that  provision  in  the  Constitution  by  which 
justice  is  made  an  hereditary  oflSce. 

My  Lords,  we  have  here  a  new  nobility,  who  have  risen,  and 
exalted  themselves  by  various  merits,  by  great  civil  and  mili- 
tary services,  which  have  extended  the  fame  of  this  country 
from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun. 

My  Lords,  you  have  here,  also,  the  lights  of  our  religion  ; 
you  have  the  bishops  of  England.  My  Lords,  you  have  that 
true  image  of  the  primitive  Church  in  its  ancient  form,  in  its 
ancient  ordinances,  purified  from  the  superstitions  aud  the 
vices  which  a  long  succession  of  ages  will  bring  upon  the  best 
institutions. 

My  Lords,  these  are  the  securities  whicli  we  have  in  all  the 
constituent  parts  of  the  body  of  this  House.  We  know  them, 
we  reckon,  we  rest  upon  them,  and  commit  safely  the  interests 
of  India  and  of  humanity  into  your  hands.  Therefore,  it  is 
with  confidence,  that,  ordered  by  the  Commons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of  high  crimes  aud 
misdemeanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain, 
in  Parliament  assembled,  whose  parliamentary  trust  he  has 
beti-ayed. 


214  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

I  impeacli  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain,  whose  national  character  he  has  dishonored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose 
laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he  has  subverted,  whose  property  he 
has  destroyed,  whose  country  he  has  laid  waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name,  and  by  virtue  of  those  eternal 
laws  of  justice  which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  which  he 
has  cruelly  outraged,  injured,  and  oppressed,  in  both  sexes,  in 
3 very  age,  rank,  situation,  and  condition  of  life. 

•^      "    '  '  Burke. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

WITH  deep  affection  and  recollection, 
I  often  think  of  those  Sliaudon  bells, 
Whose  sound  so  wild  would,  in  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder  where'er  I  wander. 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee,  — 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon,  that  sound  so  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine; 
While  at  a  glib  rate,  brass  tongues  would  vibrate ; 

But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine. 
For  memory  dwelling,  on  each  proud  swelling 

Of  thy  belfry,  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon  sound  far  more  grand,  on 

The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling  old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican  ; 
And  cymbals  glorious  swinging  uproarious 

In  the  gorgeous  turret  of  Notre  Dame  ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 

Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly. 
Oh !  the  bells  of  Shandon  sound  far  more  grand,  on 

The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


JULIUS   C-ESAR.  115 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow;  while,  on  tower  and  kiosk  —  O  — 

In  Saint  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air  calls  men  to  prayer. 

From  the  tapering  summits  of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  them; 

But  there  's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me : 

'T  is  the  bells  of  Sliandon  that  sound  so  grand,  on 

The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

Francis  Jlfahony. 


JULIUS  CaiSAR- OPENING  SCENE. 
Enter  Flavius,  Maruixus,  and  a  Throng  of  Citizens. 
Flav.    Hence !  home,  you  idle  creatures,  get  you  home ! 
Is  this  a  holiday?    What !  know  you  not, 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk 
Upon  a  laboring-day  without  the  sign 
Of  your  profession?     Speak,  what  trade  art  thou? 

1  Cit.    Why,  sir,  a  carpenter. 

Mar.     Where  is  thy  leather  apron  and  thy  rule? 
What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on?  — 
You,  sir ;  what  trade  are  you? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  workman,  I  am  but,  as  you 
would  say,  a  cobblar. 

Mar.     But  what  trade  art  thou?    Answer  me  directly. 

2  Cit.  A  trade,  sir,  that  I  hope  I  may  use  with  a  safe  conscience; 
which  is  indeed,  sir,  a  mender  of  bad  soles. 

Mar.     What  trade,  thou  knave?  thou  naughty  knave,  what  trade? 

2  Cit.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out  with  me  :  yet,  if  you  be 
out,  sir,  I  can  mend  you. 

Mar.    What  meanest  thou  by  that?    Mend  me,  thou  saucy  fellow  ! 

2  Cit.     Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 

Flav.    Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is  with  the  awl :  I  meddle  with 
no  tradesman's  matters,  nor  women's  matters,  but  with  awl.  I  am  in- 
deed, sir,  a  surgeon  to  old  shoes;  when  they  are  in  great  danger,  I  re- 
cover them.  As  proper  men  as  ever  trod  upon  neat's-leather  have  gone 
upon  my  handiwork. 

Flav.     But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to-day? 
Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets? 


116  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to  get  myself  into  more 
worlv.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we  make  holiday,  to  see  Csesar,  and  to  rejoice 
in  his  triumph. 

Mar.     Wherefore  rejoice?     What  conquest  brings  he  home? 
What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot-wheels? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless  things  I 
0,  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 
Knew  you  not  Pompcy?    Many  a  time  and  oft 
Have  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  livelong  day,  with  patient  expectation. 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome  • 
And  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear, 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout, 
That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  her  banks, 
To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds 
Made  in  her  concave  shores? 
And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire? 
Aud  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday? 
And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way 
That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood? 
Be  gone ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees, 
Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 
That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 

Flav.     Go,  go,  good  countrymen ;  and,  for  this  fault, 
Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort ; 
Draw  them  to  Tiber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 

Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all.  —  \_Exeu7it  Citizem 

See,  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  raov'd ; 
They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  tlie  Capitol; 
This  way  will  I.     Disrobe  the  images. 
If  you  do  find  them  deck'd  with  ceremony. 

Mar.     May  we  do  so? 
You  know  It  Is  the  feast  of  Lupercal. 


VICTORY   OF  TRUTH.  117 

Flav.    It  Is  no  matter ;  let  no  images 
Be  hung  with  Caesar's  trophies.     I  '11  about, 
And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets : 
So  do  you  too,  where  j'ou  perceive  them  thick. 
These  growing  feathers  pluck'd  from  C.fsar's  wing 
"Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinary  pitch, 
"Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 
And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfulness.  [Exeunt. 


VICTORY  OF  TEUTH. 


TTOOLISH  men  mistake  transitory  semblance  for  eternal 
-*~  fact,  and  go  astray-  more  and  more.  Foolish  men  imagine 
that  because  judgment  for  an  evil  thing  is  delayed,  there  is  no 
justice,  but  an  accidental  one,  here  below.  Justice  for  an  evil 
thing  is  many  times  delayed  some  day  or  two,  some  century  or 
two,  but  it  is  sure  as  life,  it  is  sure  as  death  !  In  the  centre  of 
the  world-whirlwind,  verily  now,  as  in  the  oldest  days,  dwells 
and  speaks  a  God.  The  great  soul  of  the  world  is  just.  O 
brother,  can  it  be  needful  now,  at  this  late  epoch  of  experience, 
after  eighteen  centuries  of  Christian  preaching  for  one  thing,  to 
remind  thee  of  such  a  fact ;  which  all  manner  of  Mahometans, 
old  Pagan  Romans,  Jews,  Scythians,  and  heathen  Greeks,  and 
indeed  more  or  less  all  men  that  God  made,  have  managed  at 
one  time  to  see  into;  nay  which  now  thyself,  till  "red  tape" 
strangled  the  inner  life  of  thee,  hadst  once  some  inkling  of : 
That  there  is  justice  here  below ;  and  even  at  bottom,  that 
there  is  nothing  else  but  justice  !  Forget  that,  thou  hast  for- 
gotten all.  Success  will  never  more  attend  thee  :  how  can  it 
now?  Thou  hast  the  whole  Universe  against  thee.  No  more 
success :  mere  sham-success,  for  a  day  and  days ;  rising  ever 
higher,  —  towards  its  Tarpeian  Rock. 

Alas,  how,  in  thy  soft-hung  Longacre  vehicle,  of  polished 
leather  to  the  bodily  eye,  of  red-tape  philosophy,  of  expe- 
diencies, clubroom  moralities,  Parliamentary  majorities  to  tb«> 


118  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

mind's  eye,  thou  beautifully  roUest :  but  knowest  thou  whither- 
ward? It  is  towards  the  road's-end.  Old  use-and-want ; 
established  methods,  habitudes  once  true  and  wise ;  man's 
noblest  tendency,  his  perseverance,  and  man's  ignoblest,  his 
inertia ;  whatsoever  of  noble  and  ignoble  Conservatism  there  is 
in  men  and  nations,  strongest  always  in  the  strongest  men 
and  nations :  all  this  is  as  a  road  to  thee,  paved  smooth 
through  the  abyss,  —  till  all  this  end.  Till  men's  bitter  neces- 
sities can  endure  thee  no  more.  TiU  Nature's  patience  with  thee 
is  done ;  and  there  is  no  road  or  footing  any  farther,  and  the 
abyss  yawns  sheer  !  — 

Oceans  of  horse-hair,  continents  of  parchment,  cannot  make 
unjust  just.  The  grand  question  still  remains.  Was  the  judg- 
ment just?  If  unjust  it  will  not  and  cannot  get  harbor  for 
itself,  or  continue  to  have  footing  in  this  Universe,  which  was 
made  by  other  than  One  Unjust.  Enforce  it  by  never  such 
statuting,  three  readings,  royal  assents ;  blow  it  to  the  four 
winds  with  all  manner  of  quilted  trumpeters  and  pursuivants, 
in  the  rear  of  them  never  so  many  gibbets  and  hangmen,  it 
will  not  stand,  it  cannot  stand.  From  all  souls  of  men,  from 
all  ends  of  Nature,  from  the  Throne  of  God  above,  there  are 
voices  bidding  it :  Away,  away  !  Does  it  take  no  warning ; 
does  it  stand,  strong  in  its  three  readings,  in  its  gibbets  and 
artillery  parks  ?  The  more  woe  is  to  it,  the  frightfuller  woe. 
It  will  continue  standing,  for  its  day,  for  its  year,  for  its  cen- 
tury, doing  evil  all  the  while  ;  but  it  has  One  enemy  who  is 
Almighty :  dissolution,  explosion,  and  the  everlasting  Laws  of 
Nature  incessantly  advance  towards  it ;  and  the  deeper  its 
rooting,  more  obstinate  its  continuing,  the  deeper  also  and 
huger  will  its  ruin  and  overturn  be. 

In  this  God's-world,  with  its  wild-whirling  eddies  and  mad 
foam-oceans,  where  men  and  nations  perish  as  if  without  law, 
and  judgment  for  an  unjust  thing  is  sternly  delayed,  dost  thou 
think  that  there  is  therefore  no  justice?     It  is  what  the  fool 


VICTORY   OF   TRUTH.  119 

hath  said  in  his  heart.  It  is  what  the  wise,  in  all  times,  were 
wise  because  they  denied,  and  knew  forever  not  to  be.  I  tell 
thee  again,  there  is  nothing  else  but  justice.  One  strong  thing 
I  find  here  below  :  the  just  thing,  the  true  thing. 

My  friend,  if  thou  hadst  all  the  artillery  of  Woolwich  trundling 
at  thy  back  in  support  of  an  unjust  thing,  and  infinite  bonfires 
visibly  waiting  ahead  of  thee,  to  blaze  centuries  long  for  thy 
victory  on  behalf  of  it,  I  would  advise  thee  to  call  halt,  to  fling 
down  thy  baton,  and  say,  "  In  God's  name,  No  !  " 

Thy  "  success  "  ?  Poor  fellow,  what  will  thy  success  amount 
to?  If  the  thing  is  unjust,  thou  hast  not  succeeded;  no,  not 
though  bonfires  blazed  from  North  to  South,  and  bells  rang, 
and  editors  wrote  leading  articles,  and  the  just  things  lay 
trampled  out  of  sight,  to  all  mortal  o\es  an  abolished  and 
annihilated  thing. 

Success?  In  few  3'ears  thou  wilt  be  vJ'iJid  and  dark,  — all 
cold,  eyeless,  deaf ;  no  blaze  of  bonfires,  dinp,-dong  of  bells  or 
leading  articles  visible  or  audible  to  thee  agai>^  at  all,  forever. 
What  kind  of  success  is  that?  — 

It  is  true  all  goes  by  approximation  in  this  weld  ;  with  anv 
not  insupportable  approximation  we  must  be  patiert-     There  ?.<* 
a  noble  Conservatism  as  well  as  an  ignoble.     Woulc?  to  heaven- 
for  the  sake  of  Conservatism  itself,  the  noble  alone  vc-^.vq  left 
and  the  ignoble,   by  some   kind  severe  hand,  were  rutMesslr 
lopped   away,  forbidden  evermore  to   show  itself !     For   i*;  if 
the  right  and  noble  alone  that  will  have  victory  in  this  struggle.; 
the  rest  is  wholly  an  obstruction,  a  postponement  and  fearfu 
imperilment  of  the  victory.     Towards  an  eternal  centre  of  rigW 
and  nobleness,  and  of  that  only,  is  all  this  confusion  tending. 
We   already  know  whither  it  is  all  tending ;    what  will  h  .ve 
victory,  what  will   have  none !     The   Heaviest  will   reach  the 
centre.     The  Heaviest,  sinking   through   complex   media   and 
vortices,  has  its  deflections,  its  obstructions,  nay,  at  times  its 
resiliences,  its  reboundings ;  whereupon  some  blockhead  shall 


120  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

be  lieard  jubilating,  "  See,  your  Heaviest  ascends!"  —  but  at 
all  moments  it  is  moving  centreward,  fast  as  is  convenient 
for  it ;  sinking,  sinking ;  and,  b}'  laws  older  than  the  World, 
old  as  the  Maker's  first  plan  of  the  World,  it  has  to  arrive 
there. 

Await  the  issue.  In  all  battles,  if  you  await  the  issue,  each 
fighter  has  prospered  according  to  his  right.  His  right  and 
his  might,  at  the  close  of  the  account,  were  one  and  the  same. 
He  has  fought  with  all  his  might,  and  in  exact  proportion  to 
all  his  right  he  has  prevailed.  His  very  death  is  no  victory 
over  him.     He  dies  indeed  ;  but  his  work  lives,  very  truly  lives. 

A  heroic  Wallace,  quartered  on  the  scaffold,  cannot  hinder 
that  his  Scotland  become,  one  day,  a  part  of  England  ;  but  he 
does  hinder  that  it  become,  on  tyrannous,  unfair  terras,  a  part 
of  it;  commands  still,  as  with  a  God's  voice,  from  his  old 
Valhalla  and  Temple  of  the  Brave,  that  there  be  a  just,  real 
union,  as  of  brother  and  brother,  not  a  false  and  merely 
semblant  one  as  of  slave  and  master.  If  the  union  with 
England  be  in  fact  one  of  Scotland's  chief  blessings,  we  thank 
\Vallace  withal  that  it  was  not  the  cidef  curse.  Scotland  is 
not  Ireland  :  no,  because  brave  men  rose  there  and  said,  "  Be- 
hold, ye  must  not  tread  us  down  like  slaves  ;  and  ye  shall  not, 
and  cannot !  " 

Fight  on,  thou  brave  true  heart,  and  falter  not,  through  dark 
fortune  and  through  bright.  The  cause  thou  fightest  for,  so 
far  as  it  is  true,  no  further,  yet  precisely  so  far,  is  very  sure 
of  victory.  The  falsehood  alone  of  it  will  be  conquered,  will 
be  abolished,  as  it  ought  to  be:  hut  tlie  truth  of  it  is  part  of 
Nature's  own  laws,  co-operates  with  the  World's  eternal  ten- 
dencies, and  cannot  be  conquered. 

The  dust  of  controversy,  what  is  it  but  the  fals/'hood  flying 
off  from  all  manner  of  conflicting  tr  le  forces,  and  making  such 
a  loud  dust-whirlwind,  —  that  so  the  truths  alone  may  remain, 
and  embrace  brother-like  in  some  true  resulting-force  !     It  is 


THE  HUNTER'S   SONG.  121 

ever  so.  Savage  fighting  Heptarchies ;  their  fighting  is  an 
ascertainment,  who  has  the  right  to  rule  over  whom  ;  th:it  out 
of  such  waste-bickering  Saxoudom  a  peacefully  co-operating 
England  may  arise.  Seek  through  the  universe  ;  if  with  other 
than  owl's  eyc^,  thou  wi!t  find  nothing  nourished  there,  nothing 
kept  in  life,  but  what  has  riglit  to  nourishment  and  life.  The 
rest,  look  at  it  with  other  than  owl's  eyes,  is  not  living  ;  is  all 
dying,  all  as  good  as  dead  !  Justice  was  ordained  from  the 
foundations  of   the  world ;  and  will  last  with  the  world  and 

longer.  7..  cnrlyle. 

THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 

13 ISE !   sleep  no  more !     'T  is  a  noble  mom. 
-*-  ^     The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 
And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten  hound, 
Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by, 
And  leave  ns  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky. 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.     So,  ho ! 
I'm  gone  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 

Hark !  hark  !    Who  calleth  the  maiden  Morn 

From  her  sleep  in  the  woods  and  the  stubble  corn? 

The  horn !   the  horn ! 

The  merry,  sweet  ring  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

Now,  through  the  copse  where  the  fox  is  found, 
And  over  the  stream  at  a  mighty  bound. 
And  over  the  high  lands  and  over  the  low, 
O'er  fuiTows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go. 
Away :   as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  his  prey, 
So  flieth  the  hunter, — away,  away! 
From  the  l)urst  at  the  coA'er  till  set  of  sun. 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and  the  day  is  done. 

Hark!  hark!    What  sound  on  the  wind  is  borne? 

'T  is  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn ! 

The  horn!  the  horn! 

The  merry,  bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn  I 


122  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Sound,  sound  the  horn !     To  the  hunter  good 
"What 's  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood? 
Right  over  he  bounds,  as  the  wild  stag  bounds, 
At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
Oh!   what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack. 
When  once  he  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back, 
With  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaffle  strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning  song? 

Hark!  hark!    Now  home  and  dream  till  mom 

Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

The  horn !   the  horn ! 

Oh!  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter's  horn. 

Barry  Oomwall. 

THE  BEOOZ. 
~r  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 
-^      I  make  a  sudden  sally. 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges ; 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret, 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set  " 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


THE  LARK  IN  EXILE.  128 

I  wind  about,  and  In  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  licre  and  there  a  histy  trout. 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  water-break 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers, 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses, 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars, 

I  loiter  round  ray  cresses. 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimmirig  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Alfred  Tennyton. 


THE  LAEK  DJ  EXILE. 


T  IKE  most  singers,  he  kept  them  waiting  a  bit.  But  at  last, 
just  at  noon,  when  the  mistress  of  the  house  had  warranted 
him  to  sing,  the  little  feathered  exile  began  as  it  were  lo  lune 
his  pipes.  The  savage  men  gathered  round  the  cage  that  mo- 
ment, and  amidst  a  dead  stillness  the  bird  uttered  some  very 
uncertain  chirps. 


124  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  then  the  same  sun  that  had  warmed  his  little  heart  at 
home  came  glowing  down  on  him  here,  and  he  gave  music  back 
for  it  more  and  more,  till  at  last,  amidst  the  breathless  silence 
and  the  glistening  eyes  of  the  rough  diggers  hanging  on  his  voice, 
out  burst  in  that  distant  land  his  English  son^r. 

I*  swelled  his  little  throat,  and  gushed  from  him  with  thrilling 
force  and  plenty ;  and  every  time  he  checked  his  song  to  think 
of  its  theme,  —  the  green  meadows,  the  quiet-stealing  streams, 
the  clover  he  first  soared  from,  and  the  spring  he  loved  so  well, — 
a  loud  sigh  from  many  a  rough  bosom,  many  a  wild  and  wicked 
heart,  told  how  tight  the  listeners  had  held  their  breath  to  hear 
him.  And  when  he  swelled  with  song  again,  and  poured  with  all 
his  soul  the  green  meadows,  the  quiet  brooks,  the  honey-clover, 
and  the  English  spring,  the  rugged  mouths  opened  and  so  stayed, 
and  the  shaggy  lips  trembled,  and  more  than  one  tear  trickled 
from  fierce,  unbridled  hearts,  down  bronzed  and  rugged  cheeks. 

Sweet  home  ! 

And  these  shaggy  men,  full  of  oaths  and  strife  and  cupidity, 
had  once  been  wliite-headed  boys,  and  most  of  them  had  strolled 
about  the  English  fields  with  little  sisters  and  little  brothers, 
and  seen  the  lark  rise  and  heard  him  sing  this  very  song.  The 
litlle  playmntes  lay  in  the  church-yard,  and  thej'  were  full  cf 
oaths  and  drink,  and  lusts  and  remorses,  but  no  note  was 
changed  in  this  immortal  song. 

And  so,  for  a  moment  or  two,  years  of  vice  rolled  away  like 
a  dark  cloud  from  the  memory,  and  the  past  shone  out  in  the 
song-shine  ;  they  came  back  bright  as  the  immortal  notes  that 
lighted  them,  —  those  faded  pictures  and  those  fleeted  days  ;  the 
cottage,  the  old  mother's  tears  when  he  left  her  without  one 
grain  of  sorrow  ;  the  village  church  and  its  simple  chimes,  — 
ding-dong-l)(ll,  ding-dong-bell,  ding-dong-bell ;  the  clover-field 
hard  I)}',  in  which  he  lay  and  gambolled  while  the  lark  praised 
God  overhead  ;  the  chubb}'  playniates  tluit  never  grew  to  be 
wicked  ;  the  svreet,  sweet  hours  of  youth,  innocence,  and  home. 


THANATOPSIS.  125 

The  pure  strains  dwelt  upon  tlieir  spirits,  and  refreshed  and 
purified  these  sojourners  in  a  godless  place.  INIeeting  these  fig- 
ures on  Sunday  afternoon,  armed  each  with  a  double-barrelled 
gun  and  a  revolver,  3'ou  would  never  have  guessed  what  gentle 
thoughts  possessed  them  wholly. 

Chaa.  Ileadt, 


THAUATOPSIS. 


nnO  him  who,  in  tbo  love  of  Nature,  holds 
-*-      Coramunion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  vai'ious  language  :  for  his  gaj-er  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  s]ie  glides 
Into  his  darlier  musings  witli  a  mild 
And  gentle  sj-rapathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     "When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  slrroud,  and  pall. 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  :  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  sliall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  clairc 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements ; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swaiu 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 


126  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  —  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  —  with  kings* 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods;   rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man !     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  tlie  Oregon,  aud  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings,  —  yet  the  dead  are  there! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep,  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?    All  tliat  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  Ijcfore,  will  chase 
His  favorite  pliantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — ■ 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  tlie  full  strL'iii;t,h  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-hcaded  man— 


YOUTH  AND  ART.  127 

Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night. 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  OuUen  Bryant 

YOUTH  AND  AET. 
TT  once  might  have  been,  once  only: 
-*-     We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 
You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 

Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay. 

You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted,  and  polished, 

Then  laughed,  "They  will  see,  some  day, 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled,  and  twittered, 
"Kate  Brown's  on  the  boards  ere  long. 

And  Grisi's  existence  imbitteredl" 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 

Tlian  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster  i 
You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 

I  needed  a  music-master. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 
For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles. 

For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 

Cap  and  blouse  —  nay,  a  bit  of  beard,  tooj' 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  j'our  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 


128  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS 

And  I  —  soon  managed  to  find 

"Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing. 

Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

No  harm!    It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  iJi  alt., 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up; 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  water-cresses. 

Why  did  not  j-ou  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it? 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it? 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx 

(And  yet  the  memory  rankles) 
When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up  stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good ! 

"That  foreign  fellow  —  who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood. 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano?" 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes?*' 

No,  no;  you  would  not  be  rash, 

Nor  I  rasher  and  sonietliing  over: 

You've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash. 
And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 
I  *m  queen  myself  at  bnls-paris, 

I  've  married  a  rich  old  lord. 

And  you  're  dubbed  knight  and  an  R.  A. 


USE   AND   ABUSE   OF  WEALTH.  129 

Each  life  *s  unfulfilled,  you  see; 

It  hangs  still  patchy  and  scrappy; 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired,  —  been  happy. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

And  people  suppose  me  clever; 
This  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  U.,  lost  it  forever. 

Jtrovming 


USE  AKD  ABUSE  OF  WEALTH. 

THE  simple  principles  respecting  wealth  are  nothing  more 
than  the  literal  and  practical  acceptance  of  the  say- 
ing which  is  in  all  good  men's  mouths  ;  namely,  that  they 
are  stewards  or  ministers  of  whatever  talents  are  intrusted  to 
them.  Only,  is  it  not  a  strange  thing,  that  while  we  more  or 
less  accept  the  meaning  of  that  saying,  so  long  as  it  is  consid- 
ered metaphorical,  we  never  accept  its  meaning  in  its  own 
terms?  You  know  the  lesson  is  given  us  under  the  form  of  a 
story  about  money.  Money  was  given  to  the  servants  to  make 
use  of ;  the  unprofitable  servant  dug  in  the  earth,  and  hid  his 
Lord's  money.  Well,  we,  in  our  poetical  and  spiritual  appli- 
cation of  this,  say,  that  of  course  money  does  n't  mean  money 
—  it  means  wit,  it  means  intellect,  it  means  influence  in  high 
quarters,  it  means  everything  in  the  world  except  itself. 

And  do  not  you  see  what  a  pretty  and  pleasant  come-off 
there  is  for  most  of  us  in  this  spiritual  application  ?  Of 
course,  if  we  had  wit  we  would  use  it  for  the  good  of  our 
fellow-creatures;  but  we  haven't  wit.  Of  course,  if  we  had 
influence  with  the  bishops,  we  would  use  it  for  the  good  of  the 
church ;  but  we  have  n't  any  influence  with  the  bishops.  Of 
course,  if  we  had  political  power,  we  would  use  it  for  the  good 
of  the  nation ;  but  we  have  no  political  power ;  we  have  no 
talents   intrusted  to  ua  of  any  sort  or  kind.     It  is  true  we 


130  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

iave  a  little  money,  but  the  parable  can't  possibly  mean  any- 
thing so  vulgar  as  money  ;  our  money  's  our  own. 

I  believe,  if  you  think  seriously  of  this  matter,  you  will  feel 
that  the  first  and  most  literal  application  is  just  as  necessary 
a  one  as  any  other ;  that  the  story  does  very  specially  mean 
what  it  says  —  plain  money ;  and  that  the  reason  we  don't  at 
once  believe  it  does  so,  is  a  sort  of  tacit  idea  that  while 
thought,  wit,  and  intellect,  and  all  power  of  birth  and  position, 
are  indeed  given  to  us,  and,  therefore,  to  be  laid  out  for  the 
Giver,  our  wealth  has  not  been  given  to  us ;  but  we  have 
worked  for  it,  and  have  a  right  to  spend  it  as  we  choose.  I 
think  you  will  find  that  is  the  real  substance  of  our  under- 
standing in  this  matter.  Beauty,  we  say,  is  given  by  God  — 
it  is  a  talent ;  strength  is  given  by  God  —  it  is  a  talent ;  but 
money  is  proper  wages  for  our  da3''s  work  —  it  is  not  a  talent, 
it  is  a  due.  We  may  justly  spend  it  on  ourselves,  if  we  have 
worked  for  it. 

And  there  would  be  some  shadow  of  excuse  for  this,  were  it 
not  that  the  very  power  of  making  the  money  is  itself  only  one 
of  the  applications  of  that  intellect  or  strength  which  we  con- 
fess to  be  talents.  Why  is  one  man  richer  than  another? 
Because  he  is  more  industrious,  more  persevering,  and  more 
sagacious.  Well,  who  made  him  more  persevering  and  more 
sagacious  than  others?  That  power  of  endurance,  that  quick' 
iicss  of  apprehension,  that  calmness  of  judgment,  which  enable 
him  to  seize  opportunities  that  others  lose,  and  persist  in  the 
lines  of  conduct  in  which  others  fail  —  are  these  not  talents  ?  — 
are  they  not,  in  the  present  state  of  the  world,  among  the 
most  distinguished  and  influential  of  mental  gifts? 

And  is  it  not  wonderful  that  while  we  should  be  utterly 
ashamed  to  use  a  superiority  of  body  in  order  to  thrust  our 
weaker  companions  aside  from  some  place  of  advantage,  we 
unhesitatingly  use  our  superiorities  of  mind  to  thrust  them  back 
*tom  whatever  rpod  that  strength  of  mind  can  attain?    You 


USE   AND   ABUSE    OF   WEALTH.  131 

W^ould  be  indignant  if  you  siiw  a  strong  man  walk  into  a  theatre 
or  a  lecture-room,  and,  calmly  choosing  the  best  place,  take  his 
feeble  neighbor  by  the  shoulder,  and  turn  him  out  of  it  into  the 
back  seats  or  the  street.  You  would  be  equally  indignant  if 
you  saw  a  stout  fellow  thrust  himself  up  to  a  table  where  some 
hungry  children  are  being  fed,  and  reach  his  arm  over  their 
heads  and  take  their  bread  from  them. 

But  you  are  not  the  least  indignant  if,  when  a  man  has  stout- 
ness of  thought  and  swiftness  of  capacity,  and,  instead  of 
being  long-armed  only,  has  the  much  greater  gift  of  being 
long-headed — you  think  it  perfectly  just  that  he  should  use 
his  intellect  to  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  all  the 
other  men  in  the  town  who  are  in  the  same  trade  with  him  ;  or 
use  his  breadth  and  sweep  of  sight  to  gatker  some  branch  of 
the  commerce  of  the  country  into  one  great  cobweb,  of  which 
he  is  himself  the  central  spider,  making  every  thread  vibrate 
with  the  points  of  his  claws,  and  commanding  every  avenue 
with  the  facets  of  his  eyes.     You  see  no  injustice  in  this. 

But  there  is  injustice ;  and,  let  us  trust,  one  of  which  hon- 
orable men  will  at  no  very  distant  period  disdain  to  be  guilty. 
In  some  degree,  however,  it  is  indeed  not  unjust ;  in  somo 
degree  it  is  necessary  and  intended.  It  is  assuredly  just  that 
idleness  should  be  surpassed  by  energy  ;  that  the  widest  influ- 
ence should  be  possessed  by  those  who  are  best  able  to  wield 
it ;  and  that  a  wiae  man,  at  the  end  of  his  career,  should  bo 
better  oflf  than  a  fool.  But  for  that  reason,  is  the  fool  to  be 
wretched,  utterly  crushed  down,  and  left  in  all  the  suffering 
which  his  conduct  and  capacity  naturally  inflict?     Not  so. 

What  do  you  suppose  fools  were  made  for?  That  you  might 
tread  upon  them,  and  starve  them,  and  get  the  better  of  them 
in  every  possible  way?  By  no  means.  They  were  made  that 
wise  men  might  take  care  of  them.  Thai  is  the  true  and  plain 
fact  concerning  the  relations  of  every  strong  and  wise  man  to 
the  world  about  him.     He  has  his  strength  given  him,  not  th&i 


132  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

he  may  crush  the  weak,  but  that  he  may  support  and  guide 
them.  In  his  own  houseliold  he  is  to  be  the  guide  and  the 
support  of  his  children  ;  out  of  the  household  he  is  still  to  be 
the  father,  that  is,  the  guide  and  support,  of  the  weak  and  the 
poor ;  not  merely  of  the  meritoriously  weak  and  the  innocently 
poor,  but  of  the  guiltily  and  punishably  poor  ;  of  the  men  who 
ought  to  have  known  better  —  of  the  poor  who  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves. 

It  is  nothing  to  give  pension  and  cottage  to  the  widow  who 
has  lost  her  sou  ;  it  is  nothing  to  give  food  and  medicine  to 
the  workman  who  has  broken  his  arm,  or  the  decrepit  woman 
Nvasting  in  sickness.  But  it  is  something  to  use  your  time  and 
strength  in  war  with  the  wa^'wardness  and  thoughtlessness  of 
mankind ;  to  keep  the  erring  workman  in  your  service  till  you 
have  made  him  an  unerring  one ;  and  to  dii'ect  your  fellow- 
merchant  to  the  opportunity  which  his  dulness  would  have  lost. 

You  may  stretch  out  your  sceptre  over  the  heads  of  the 
laborers,  and  say  to  them,  as  they  stoop  to  its  waving,  "  Sub- 
due this  obstacle  that  has  baffled  our  fathers  ;  put  away  this 
plague  that  consumes  our  children ;  water  these  dry  places, 
plough  these  desei't  ones,  carry  this  food  to  those  who  are  in 
hunger ;  carry  this  light  to  those  who  are  in  darkness  ;  carry 
this  life  to  those  who  are  in  death  "  ;  or  on  the  other  side  you 
may  say  :  "Here  am  I ;  this  power  is  in  my  hand  ;  come,  build 
a  mound  here  for  me  to  be  throned  upon,  high  and  wide  ;  come, 
malce  crowns  for  my  head,  that  men  may  see  them  shine  from 
far  away  ;  come,  weave  tapestries  for  my  feet,  that  I  may  tread 
softly  on  the  silk  and  purple  ;  come,  dance  before  me,  that  I 
may  be  gay  ;  and  sing  sweetly  to  me,  that  I  may  slumber  ;  so 
shall  I  live  in  joy,  and  die  in  honor."  And  better  than  such  an 
honorable  death  it  were,  that  the  day  had  perished  wherein  we 
were  born. 

I  trust  that  in  a  little  while  there  will  be  few  of  our  rich 
men  who,  through  carelessness  or  covetousness,  thus  forfeit  the 


MONT   BLANC   BEFORE   SUNRISE.  138 

glorious  office  which  is  intended  for  their  hands.  I  said,  just 
now,  that  wealth  ill  used  was  as  the  net  of  the  spider,  entan- 
gling and  destroj'ing  ;  but  wealth  well  used  is  as  the  net  of  the 
sacred  Fisher  who  gathers  souls  of  men  out  of  the  deep.  A 
time  will  come  —  I  do  not  think  it  is  far  from  us  —  when  this 
golden  net  of  the  world's  wealth  will  be  spread  abroad  as  the 
flaming  meshes  of  morning  cloud  over  the  sky ;  bearing  with 
them  the  joy  of  light  and  the  dew  of  morning,  as  well  as  the 
summons  to  honorable  and  peaceful  toil. 

John  Ruskin  {A  Joy  Forever), 


MONT  BLANO  BEFORE   SUNRISE. 

I    I  AST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
*   *      In  his  steep  course?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc! 
The  Arv6  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly;  but  thou,  most  awful  form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently!    Around  thee,  and  above, 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black. 
An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  witli  a  wedge.    But  when  I  look  again 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity. 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!     I  gazed  upon  thee 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought!  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody,  — 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it,  — 

Thou,  the  mean  while  Avast  blending  with  ray  thougnt, 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy; 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  —  there, 

As  In  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heavea. 

Awake,  my  soul .'  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 


184  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy!    Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song!    Awake,  my  heart,  awake  1 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs !  all  join  my  hymn ! 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale! 
O,  struggling  with  the  darkness  aU  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sinlc,' 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  —  wake !  O  wake !  and  utter  praise ! 
"Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  i~cm  night  and  utter  deaths 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jaggfed  rocks, 

Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury  and  your  Joy. 

Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded, — and  the  silence  came, — 

"Here  let  the  billows  stififen  and  have  rest"? 

Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 
Torrents,  mcthinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge? 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  tlie  keen  full  moon?    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clotlie  you  with  rainbows?    Who,  with  living  flowerb 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 

••  God ! "  let  llie  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 

Answer!  and  let  tlie  ice-plain  echo,  "God!" 

"God!"  sing,  ye  meadow  streams,  with  gladsome  voice' 

Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  aoul-like  sounds  1 

And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  j'on  piles  of  snow, 

And  In  thrir  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  "God I" 


TO  THOMAS   MOORE.  135 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  -wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 
Utter  forth  "God!"  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  1 

Thou  too,  hoar  mount!  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast, — 

Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain !  thou 

That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow  travelling,  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 

To  rise  before  me, — rise,  oh,  ever  rise! 

Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth! 

Thou  kingly  spirit,  throned  among  the  hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Great  Ilierarch!  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 

Earth,  vr*th  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

Coleridge, 


TO  THOMAS  MOOEE. 


*\  /TY  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
^-'-     And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee. 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky 's  above  me. 
Here  's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me.^ 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 


186  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Were 't  the  last  drop  in  the  well. 
As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink- 

"With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be,  — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 
And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Jloore. 


Byron. 


EAMLET'S  INSTEUCTION  TO  THE  PLATER. 

SPEAK  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you,  — 
trippingly  on  the  tongue  ;  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of 
our  players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines. 
Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand,  thus  ;  but  use 
all  gently :  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say, 
whirlwind  of  your  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  tem- 
perance that  may  give  it  smoothness.  O,  it  offends  me  to  the 
soul  to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to 
tatters,  to  very  rags,  to  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings,  who, 
for  the  most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inexplicable  dumb 
show  and  noise.  I  would  have  such  a  fellow  whipped  for  o'er- 
doing  Termagant ;  it  out-herods  Herod.     Pray  you  avoid  it. 

Be  not  too  tame,  neither,  but  let  your  own  discretion  be  your 
tutor.  Suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the  word  to  the  action; 
witli  this  special  observance,  that  you  o'crstep  not  the  modesty 
of  nature  :  for  anything  so  overdone  is  from  the  purpose  of  play- 
'.:ig,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was,  and  is,  to  hold, 
as  *t  were,  the  mirror  up  to  nature  ;  to  show  virtue  her  own 
feature  •  scorn  her  own  image  ;  and  the  very  age  and  body  of 
tlie  tim ■■,  his  fiuMU  and  pressure.  Now,  this,  overdone,  or 
come  tardy  off,  thougli  it  make  tlic  unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but 
make  tho  judicious  grieve  ;  the  censure  of  which  one  must,  in 
your  allowance,  o'erweigh  a  whole  theatre  of  otliors.  O,  there 
V)e  players,  that  1  have  seen  play,  and  heard  others  praise,  and 


LADY   CLARE.  187 

that  highly,  —  not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that,  neither  having 
the  accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait  of  Christian,  pagan,  or 
man,  have  so  strutted  and  bellowed,  that  I  have  thougiit  some 
of  Nature's  journeymen  had  made  men,  and  not  made  them 
veil,  they  imitated  humanity  so  abominably  ! 

Shakespeare, 


LADY  OLAEE. 


"FT  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
-■-     And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air. 
Lord  liouald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lad)'  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 

Lovers  long-betrothed  were  they: 
They  two  shall  wed  the  morrow  morn; 

God's  blessing  ou  the  day. 

••He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands,  so  broad  and  fair; 
He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice,  the  nurse. 

Said,  "  Wlio  was  this  that  went  from  thee?" 
••It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare; 

"To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

••Oh  God  be  thanked!"  said  Alice,  tlie  nurse, 
'•That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair: 

Lord  Rouald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

••  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse?' 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  tliat  ye  speali  so  wild?" 

"As  God's  above,"  said  Alice,  the  nurse, 
"I  speak  tlie  truth;   you  are  ray  child, 

••The  old  earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast: 
I  speak  the  truth  as  I  live  by  bread  I 

I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 
And  out  my  child  in  her  stead." 


138  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

"Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I 'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"I  Avill  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie: 

Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 

She  said,  "Not  so:  but  I  will  know, 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"Nay  now,  what  faith?"  said  Alice  the  nurse 
"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dearl 
Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 

"  O  mother,  mother,  mother ! "  she  said, 
"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so; 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  In  a  russet  gown^ 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 

She  wont  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down. 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  tlie  maiden's  hand. 
And  followed  her  all  the  way. 


ELIZABETH   AND  LEICESTER.  189 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower: 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth?  " 

♦'  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are: 
I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 
•*  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 

"For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  deed.] 
Play  me  no  tricks."  said  Lord  Ronald, 

"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail: 
She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes. 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn: 

He  turned  and  kissed  her  where  she  stood: 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I,"  said  he,  "the  next  of  blood  — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I,"  said  he,  "the  lawful  heir. 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 

And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 

Tennyton. 


ELIZABETH  AND  LEICESTEB. 
/^UEEN"  ELIZABETH.     Ho,  sir,  you  knew  -^f  this  fair  work  — you 
^     are  an  accomplice  in  this  deception  which  nas  been  practised  on 
us — yozi  have  been  a  main  cause  of  our  doing  injustice!     Art  dumb, 
sirrah?    Thou  know'st  of  this  aftair,  dost  thou  not? 

Tressilian.  Not,  gracious  madam,  that  this  poor  lady  was  Countess 
of  Leicester. 

Queen.  Nor  shall  any  one  know  her  as  such.  Death  of  my  life ! 
Countess  of  Leicester!  I  say  Dame  Amy  Dudley,  and  well  if  she  have 
not  cause  to  write  herself  widow  of  the  traitor  Robert  Dudley. 

Leicester.  Madam,  do  with  me  what  u  may  be  your  will  to  do,  but 
work  no  injury  on  this  gentleman;  he  hath  in  no  way  deserved  it. 


140  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Queen.  And  will  he  be  the  better  for  thy  interceasion,  thou 
doubly  false  —  thou  doubly  forsworn?  for  thy  intercession,  whose 
viUany  hath  made  me  ridiculous  to  my  subjects  and  odious  to  myself? 
I  could  tear  out  mine  eyes  for  their  blindness ! 

Burleigh.  Madam,  remember  that  you  are  a  queen  —  Queen  of  Eng- 
land, mother  of  your  people.    Give  not  way  to  this  wild  storm  of  passion. 

Queen.  Burleigh,  thou  art  a  statesman;  thou  dost  not,  thou  canst 
not,  comprehend  half  the  scorn,  half  the  misery,  that  man  has  poured 
on  me ! 

Bur.  Madam,  I  am  a  statesman,  but  I  am  also  a  man  —  a  man 
already  grown  old  in  your  councils,  who  have  not  and  cannot  have  a 
wish  on  earth  but  your  glory  and  happiness.  I  pray  you  to  be  com- 
posed. 

Queen.     Ah,  Burleigh,  thou  little  knowest  — 

Bur.  I  do  —  I  do  know,  my  honored  sovereign.  0  beware  that  you 
lead  not  others  to  guess  that  which  they  know  not ! 

Queen.  Ha !  Burleigh,  thou  art  right  —  thou  art  right  —  anything 
but  disgrace  —  anything  but  a  confession  of  weakness  —  anything  rather 
than  seem  the  cheated,  slighted.  —  'Sdeath !  to  think  on  it  is  distrac- 
tion! 

Bur.  Be  but  yourself,  my  queen,  and  soar  far  above  a  weakness 
which  no  Englishman  will  ever  believe  his  Elizabeth  could  have  enter- 
tained, unless  the  violence  of  her  disappointment  carries  a  sad  convic- 
tion to  his  bosom. 

Queen.  "What  weakness,  my  lord?  "Would  you,  too,  insinuate  that 
the  favor  in  which  I  held  yonder  proud  traitor  derived  its  source  from 
aught  —  But  why  should  I  strive  to  deceive  even  thee,  my  good  and 
wise  servant?  —  My  Lord  of  Leicester,  rise,  and  take  up  your  sword. 
We  will  now  hear  the  progress  of  this  affair. 

Leicester.  Madam,  I  have  been  much  to  blame  —  more  than  even 
your  just  resentment  has  expressed.  Yet,  madam,  let  me  say,  that  my 
guilt,  if  it  be  unpardonable,  was  not  unprovoked ;  and  that  if  beauty 
and  condescending  dignity  could  seduce  the  frail  heart  of  a  human 
being,  I  miglit  plead  both  as  the  causes  of  my  concealing  tliis  secret 
from  your  Majesty. 

Queen.  Now,  by  heaven,  my  lord,  thy  effrontery  passes  the  bounds 
of  belief,  as  well  as  patience!  But  it  shall  avail  thee  nothing.  "What 
ho !  my  lords  !  come  all  and  hear  the  news !  My  Lord  of  Leicester's 
stolen  marriage  lias  cost  me  a  liusband,  and  England  a  king.  His  lord- 
ship is  patriarchal  in  taste  —  one  wife  at  a  time  was  insufficient,  and  ha 


THE  FALL  OF   D'ASSAS.  141 

designed  us  the  honor  of  his  left  hand.  Now,  is  not  this  too  Insolent, 
—  that  I  could  not  grace  him  with  a  few  marlcs  of  court  favor,  but  he 
must  presume  to  think  my  hand  and  crown  at  his  disposal?  You,  how- 
ever, think  better  of  me ;  aiid  I  can  pity  this  man  as  I  could  a  child, 
whose  bubble  of  soap  has  burst  between  his  hands.  We  go  to  the 
presence  chamber.  —  My  Lord  of  Leicester,  we  command  your  close 

attendance  on  us. 

Arranged  from  Scott's  Kenilworth.. 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 

"TOHN  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
^      When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bcld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw: 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  moiiie  a  canty  day,  Jolm, 
We  've  had  wi'  ane  anitlier : 
Now  wc  maun  totter  down,  Jolin, 
But  hand  in  hand  wc  '11  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


Burns. 


THE  FALL  OF  D'ASSAS. 


A    LONE,  through  gloomy  forest  sliac  s,  a  soldier  weut  by  niglit ; 
-^-^     No  moonbeam  pierced  tlie  dusky  glades,  no  star  shed  guiding 

light; 
Yet,  on  his  vigil's  midniglit  round,  tlie  youth  all  cheerly  passed, 
Unchecked  by  aught  of  boding  sound  that  muttered  in  the  blast. 

Where  were  his  thoughts  that  lonely  hour?    In  his  far  home,  perchance, 
His  father's  hall,  his  mother's  bower,  'midst  the  gay  vines  of  France. 
Hush!  hark!  did  stealing  steps  go  by?    Came  not  faint  whispxers  neari 
No  I    The  wild  wind  hath  many  a  sigh,  amid  the  foliage  sere. 


142  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Hark !  yet  again !  —  and  from  his  hand  what  grasp  hath  wrenched  the 

blade? 
O,  single  'midst  a  hostile  band,  young  soldier,  thou  'rt  betrayed ! 
"  Silence !  "  in  undertones  they  cry ;  "no  whisper  —  not  a  breath ! 
The  sound  that  warns  thy  comrades  nigh  shall  sentence  thee  to  death." 

Still  at  the  bayonet's  point  he  stood,  and  strong  to  meet  the  blow ; 
And  shouted,  'midst  his  rushing  blood,  "Arm!  arm!  Auvergne!  th? 

foe!" 
The  stir,  the  tramp,  the  bugle-call,  he  heard  their  tumults  grow; 
And  sent  his  djdng  voice  through  all, — "Auvergne!  Auvergne!  th« 

foe  1  '  Mrs,  Eemans. 


THE   OWL  AND   THE  BELL. 

""DING,  Bim,  Bang,  Bome !  " 

-*-^     Sang  the  Bell  to  himself  in  his  house  at  home, 
Up  in  the  tower,  away  and  unseen. 
In  a  twilight  of  ivy,  cool  and  green; 
With  his  Bing,  Bim,  Bang,  Bome! 
Singing  bass  to  himself  in  his  house  at  home. 

Said  the  Owl  to  himself,  as  he  sat  below 
On  a  window-ledge,  like  a  ball  of  snow, 
"Pest  on  that  fellow,  sitting  up  there, 
Always  calling  the  people  to  prayer! 
With  his  Bing,  Bim,  Bang,  Bome! 
Mighty  big  in  his  house  at  home ! 

"I  will  move,"  said  the  Owl.     "But  it  suits  me  well; 
And  one  may  get  used  to  it,  —  who  can  tell?" 
So  he  slept  in  the  day  with  all  his  might. 
And  rose  and  flapped     afc  in  the  hush  of  night, 
When  the  Bell  was  asleep  in  his  tower  at  home. 
Dreaming  over  liis  Bing,  Bang,  Bome ! 

For  the  Owl  was  born  so  poor  and  genteel, 

He  was  forced  from  the  first  to  pick  and  steal; 

He  scorned  to  work  for  honest  bread  — 

"  Better  h.ave  never  been  hatched,"  he  said. 

So  he  slept  all  day;  for  he  dared  not  roam 

Till  the  night  had  silenced  the  Bing,  Bang,  Bumet 


THE   OWL   AND   THE   BELL-  143 

When  his  six  little  darlings  had  chipped  the  egg, 
He  must  steal  the  more;  'twas  a  shame  to  beg. 
And  they  ate  the  more  tliat  they  did  not  sleep  well. 
"It's  their  gizzards,"  said  ma;  said  pa,  "It's  the  Bell! 
For  they  quiver  like  leaves  in  a  wind-blown  tomf, 
When  the  Bell  bellows  out  his  Bing,  Bang,  Borne!" 

But  the  Bell  began  to  throb  with  the  fear 
Of  bringing  the  house  about  his  one  ear; 
And  his  people  were  patching  all  day  long, 
And  propping  the  walls  to  make  them  strong. 
So  a  fortnight  he  sat,  and  felt  like  a  mome, 
For  he  dared  not  shout  his  Bing,  Bang,  Borne! 

Said  the  Owl  to  himself,  and  hissed  as  he  said 

"  I  do  believe  the  old  fool  is  dead. 

Now,  now,  I  vow,  I  sliall  never  pounce  twice; 

And  stealing  shall  be  all  sugar  and  spice. 

But  I'll  see  the  corpse,  ere  he's  laid  in  tlie  loam. 

And  shout  in  his  ear  Bing,  Bim,  Bang,  Bome ! 

"Hoo!  hoo!"  he  cried,  as  he  entered  the  steeple, 

"  They  've  hanged  him  at  last,  the  righteous  people/ 

His  swollen  tongue  lolls  out  of  his  head  — 

Hoo!  hoo!  at  last  the  old  brute  is  dead. 

There  let  him  hang,  the  shapeless  gnome ! 

Choked,  with  liis  throat  full  of  Bing,  Bang,  Bome!'' 

So  he  danced  about  him,  singing  Too-whoo ! 
And  flapped  the  poor  Bell  and  said,  "Is  that  you? 
Where  is  your  voice  with  its  wonderful  tone. 
Banging  poor  owls  and  making  them  groan? 
A  flg  for  you  now,  in  your  great  hall-dome! 
Too-whoo  is  better  than  Bing,  Bang,  Bome ! " 

So  brave  was  the  Owl,  the  downy  and  dapper, 
That  he  flew  inside,  and  sat  on  the  clapper; 
And  he  shouted  Too-whoo !  till  the  echo  awoke 
Like  the  sound  of  a  ghostly  clapper-stroke. 
"Ah,  ha!"  quoth  the  Owl,  "I  am  quite  at  home; 
I  will  take  your  place  with  my  Bing,  Bang,  Bomef" 


1144  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS 

The  Owl  was  uplifted  with  pride  aud  self-wondsr; 

He  hissed,  and  then  called  the  echo  thunder; 

And  he  sat,  the  monarch  of  feathered  fowl, 

Till  —  Bang !  went  the  Bell,  and  down  went  the  Owl, 

Like  an  avalanche  of  feathers  and  foam, 

Loosed  bj'  the  booming  Bing,  Bang,  Borne. 

He  sat  where  he  fell,  as  if  naught  was  the  matter. 
Though  one  of  his  eyebrows  was  certainly  flatter. 
Said  the  eldest  owlet,  "Pa,  you  were  wrong; 
He's  at  it  again  with  his  vulgar  song." 
"Be  still,"  said  the  Owl;  "you're  guilty  of  pride: 
I  brought  him  to  life  by  perching  inside." 

"But  why,  my  dear?"  said  his  pillowy  wife; 

"  You  know  he  was  always  the  plague  of  your  life." 

"  I  have  given  him  a  lesson  of  good  for  evil ; 

Perhaps  the  old  ruffian  will  now  be  civil." 

The  Owl  looked  righteous,  and  raised  his  comb; 

But  the  Bell  bawled  on  his  Bing,  Bang,  Bome ! 

Geo.  JfacDonald. 


PEEOEATION   OF  CLOSING   SPEECH  AGAINST  HASTINGS. 

MY  Lords,  at  this  awful  close,  in  the  name  of  the  Cora- 
mons,  and  surrounded  by  thera,  I  attest  the  retiring,  I 
attest  the  advancing  generations,  between  which,  as  a  link  in 
the  great  chain  of  eternal  order,  we  stand.  —  We  call  this 
Nation,  we  call  the  world  to  witness,  that  the  Commons  have 
shrunk  from  no  labor  ;  that  we  have  been  guilty  of  no  prevari- 
cation, that  we  have  made  no  compromise  with  crime  ;  that  we 
have  not  feared  any  odium  whatsoever,  in  the  long  warfare 
which  we  have  carried  on  with  tlie  crimes — with  the  vices  — 
with  the  exorbitant  wealth  —  with  the  enormous  aud  overpower- 
ing influence  of  Eastern  corruption. 

My  Lords,  your  House  yet  stands ;  it  stands  as  a  great 
edifice  ;  but  let  me  say  that  it  stands  in  ruins  that  have  been 
made  by  the  greatest  moral  earthquake  that  ever  convulsed 


CLOSING   SPEECH  AGAINST  HASTINGS.  145 

and  shattered  tliis  globe  of  ours.  My  Lords,  it  has  pleased 
Providence  to  place  us  ia  such  a  state  that  we  appear  every 
moment  to  be  on  the  verge  of  some  great  mutations.  There 
is  one  thing,  and  one  thing  only,  which  defies  all  mutation  ; 
that  which  existed  before  the  world,  and  will  survive  the  fabric 
of  the  world  itself,  —  I  mean  justice  ;  that  justice  which,  ema- 
nating fr(^m  the  Divinity,  has  a  place  in  the  breast  of  every 
one  of  us,  given  us  for  our  guide  in  regard  to  ourselves,  and 
with  regard  to  others,  and  which  will  stand,  after  this  globe 
is  burned  to  ashes,  our  advocate  or  our  accuser  before  the 
great  Judge,  when  He  comes  to  call  upon  us  for  the  tenor  of 
a  well-spent  life, 

]\Iy  Lords,  the  Commons  will  share  in  every  fate  with  your 
Lordships ;  there  is  nothing  sinister  whicli  can  happen  to  you, 
in  which  we  shall  not  be  involved  ;  and,  if  it  should  so  happen, 
that  we  shall  be  subjected  to  some  of  those  frightful  changes 
which  we  have  seen  ;  if  it  should  happen  that  your  Lordships, 
stripped  of  all  the  decorous  distinctions  of  human  society, 
should,  by  hands  at  once  base  and  crupl,  be  led  to  those  scaf- 
folds and  machines  of  murder  upon  which  great  kings  and 
glorious  queens  have  shed  their  blood,  amidst  the  prelates, 
amidst  the  nobles,  amidst  the  magistrates,  who  supported  their 
thrones,  —  may  you  in  those  moments  feel  that  consolation 
which  I  am  persuaded  they  felt  in  the  critical  moments  of 
their  dreadful  agony ! 

My  Lords,  there  is  a  consolation,  and  a  great  consolation  it 
is,  which  often  happens  to  oppressed  virtue  and  fallen  dignity  ; 
it  often  happens  that  the  very  oppressors  and  persecutors  them- 
selves are  forced  to  bear  testimony  in  its  favor.  The  Parlia- 
ment of  Paris  had  an  origin  very,  very  similar  to  that  of  the 
great  court  before  which  I  stand  ;  the  Parliament  of  Paris  con- 
tinued  to  have  a  great  resemblance  to  it  in  its  Constitution, 
even  to  its  fall ;  tlie  Parliaiuont  of  Paris,  my  Lords,  —  avas  ; 
it  is  Tone  I     It  has  passed  away  ;  it  has  vanished  like  a  dream  I 


146  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

It  fell  pierced  by  the  sword  of  the  Compte  de  Mirabeau.  And 
yet  that  man,  at  the  time  of  his  inflicting  the  death-wound  of 
that  Parliament,  produced  at  once  the  sliortest  and  the  grand- 
est funeral  oration  that  ever  was  or  could  be  made  upon  the 
departure  of  a  great  court  of  magistracy.  When  he  pro- 
nounced the  death  sentence  upon  that  Parliament,  and  inflicted 
the  mortal  wound,  he  declared  that  his  motives  for  doing  it 
were  merely  political,  and  that  their  hands  were  as  pure  as 
those  of  justice  itself ,  which  they  administered  —  a  great  and 
glorious  exit,  my  Lords,  of  a  great  and  glorious  body  ! 

My  Lords,  if  you  must  fall,  may  you  so  fall !  But,  if  you 
stand,  and  stand  I  trust  you  will,  together  with  the  fortuues  of 
this  ancient  monarchy,  —  together  with  the  ancient  laws  and 
liberties  of  this  great  and  illustrious  kingdom, —  may  you  stand 
as  unimpeached  in  honor  as  in  power  ;  may  you  stand,  not  as  a 
substitute  for  virtue,  but  as  an  ornament  of  virtue,  as  a  security 
for  virtue  ;  may  you  stand  long,  and  long  stand  the  terror  of 
tyrants ;  may  you  stand  the  refuge  of  afflicted  Nations ;  may 
you  stand  a  sacred  temple,  for  the  perpetual  residence  of  an 
inviolable  justice !  Burke. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 


•/~\    MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
^-^     And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land- 
And  never  home  came  ahe. 


ROSABELLE.  147 

"  Oh,  Is  It  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair— 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair. 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  tlie  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel,  crawling  foara, 

The  cruel,  hungry  foara,  — 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea; 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home. 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

Charles  Kingaley 

EOSABELLE. 
"  nV/f  ^^^'  ™oor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew; 

-^^-*-     And,  gentle  lady,  deign  to  stay : 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 
Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

*'  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white ; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  water-sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"  Last  night  the  gifted  seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  fair,  in  Ravensheuch ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day?  " 

"'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  lady-mother  there 

Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 
"'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, — 

And  Lindcsay  at  tlie  ring  rides  well, — 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 

If  't  is  not  filled  by  Rosabelle." 
O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam; 
T  was  broader  than  the  watch-lh-e's  liglit. 

And  redder  than  the  'aright  moonbeam. 


*48  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavemed  Hawthornden. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 
"Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffined  lie, 

Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seemed  all  on  fire,  within,  around. 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale. 
Shone  every  piUar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high. 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair,  — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  tliat  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold. 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle. 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  waves  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 


Scott. 


GOD. 
/^\  THOU  eternal  One !  whose  presence  bright 
^-^  All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  — 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight  1 
Thou  only  God  —  there  is  :ic  God  beside  I 
Being  above  all  beings  !     Mighty  One. 
Whom  none  can  comprehend,  and  none  explore, 
Wlio  flll'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone,  — 
Embracing  all,  supporting,  ruling  o'er,  — 
Being  whom  we  call  God,  and  know  no  more  t 

In  its  sublhne  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep,  —  may  count 


GOD.  149 

The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays  —  but,  God !  for  Thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure ;  none  can  mount 
Up  to  Thy  mysteries ;  Reason's  brightest  spark, 
Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark; 
And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 
Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 

First  chaos,  then  existence,  —  Lord !  in  Thee 

Eternity  had  its  foundation ;  all 

Sprung  forth  from  Thee  —  of  light,  joy,  harmony, 

Sole  Origin  —all  life,  all  beauty  Thine; 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 

Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine ; 

Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be!     Glorious!     Great  I 

Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround  -- 

Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath  ! 

Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound. 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death ! 

As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  Thee 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  smmy  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 

Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 

A  million  torches,  lighted  by  Thy  hand. 
Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss  — 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command. 
All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them?    Piles  of  crystal  light  — 
A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams  — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright  — 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Tes !  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost :  — 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee? 

And  what  am  I  then?  —  Heaven's  unnumbered  host, 


150  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weighed 
Against  Thy  greatness  —  is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  Infinity !     What  am  I  then?    Naught ! 

Naught !     But  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too; 
Yes !  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine 
As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Naught !  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 
Eager  towards  Thy  presence ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high, 
Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 
I  am,  O  God !  and  surely  Thou  must  be ! 

Thou  art!  —  directing,  guiding  all  —  Thou  art  I 

Direct  my  understanding,  then,  to  Thee ; 

Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart; 

Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 

StiU  I  am  something,  fashioned  by  Thy  hand ! 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  — • 

On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birthj 

Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me  — 
In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 
And  the  next  step  is  spirit  —  Deity ! 
I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust! 
A  monarch  and  a  slave  —  a  worm,  a  god ! 
Whence  came  I  here,  and  how?  so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived?  unknown!  this  clod 
Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy ; 
For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be ! 

Creator,  yes !     Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me !     Thou  source  of  life  and  good  I 
Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord ! 
Thy  light,  Tliy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 
Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 


PATRIOTISM.  151 

Over  the  abyss  of  death ;  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 
Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source  —  to  Thee  —  its  Author  there. 

O  thoughts  ineffable !     O  visions  blest ! 

Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 

Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 

And  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity. 

God !  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar, 

Thus  seek  Thy  presence  —  Being  wise  and  good ! 

'Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore ; 

And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more 

The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 

Denhaven. 


PATRIOTISM. 


THUS,  gentlemen,  we  see  that  a  man's  country  is  not  a  cer- 
tain area  of  land,  — of  mountains,  rivers,  and  woods,  — but 
it  is  principle  ;  and  patriotism  is  loyalty  to  that  principle. 

In  poetic  minds  and  in  popular  enthusiasm  this  feeling 
becomes  closely  associated  with  the  soil  and  symbols  of  the 
country.  But  the  secret  sanctification  of  the  soil  and  the  sym- 
bol is  the  idea  which  they  represent,  and  this  idea  the  patriot 
worships  through  the  name  and  the  symbol,  as  a  lover  kisses 
with  rapture  the  glove  of  his  mistress  and  wears  a  lock  of  her 
hair  upon  his  heart. 

So,  with  passionate  heroism,  of  which  tradition  is  never 
weary  of  tenderly  telling,  Arnold  Von  Winkelried  gathers  into 
his  bosom  the  sheaf  of  foreign  spears,  that  his  death  may  give 
Ufe  to  his  country.  So  Nathan  Hale,  disdaining  no  service 
that  his  country  demands,  perishes  untimely,  with  no  other 
friend  than  God  and  the  satisfied  sense  of  duty.  So  George 
Washington,  at  once  comprehending  the  scope  of  the  destiny  to 
which  his  country  was  devoted,  with  one  hand  put  aside  the 
crown,  and  wi'.h  the  other  sets  his  slaves  free.  So,  through  all 
history  from  the  beginning,  a  noble  army  of  martyrs  has  fought 


152  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

fiercely  and  fallen  bravely  for  that  unseen  mistress,  their  coun- 
try. So,  through  all  history  to  the  end,  as  long  as  men  believe 
in  God,  that  army  must  still  march  and  fight  and  fall  —  re^ 
cruited  only  from  the  flower  of  mankind  — cheered  only  by  their 
own  hope  of  humanity —  strong  only  in  their  confidence  in  their 
cause.  Q,  w.  Curtu. 

"WORLBLmESS. 

r  I  "'HE  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 

-*-    Getting  and  spending,  w^e  lay  waste  our  powers. 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 

"We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  tlie  moon; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  upgathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers  — 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 

It  moves  us  not.     Great  God !     I  'd  rather  be 

A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Wordtworth. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  (1571). 
r  I  ""HE  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower. 
-^     Tlie  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three; 
**  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before ; 

Good  ringers,  puU  your  best,"  quoth  he. 
"Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  beUsJ 
Ply  all  your  changes;  all  your  swells, 
Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.' " 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

Tlie  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall: 

And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 

'Vhe  lliglit  of  mows  and  peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  tlie  old  sea  walL 


THE   HIGH  TIDE   (1571).  158 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  bralie  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes; 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinliing  in  the  barren  skies; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!   Cusha!   Cusha!"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song, 
"Cusha!   Cusha!"  all  along 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song  — 

"Cusha!   Cusha!   Cusha!"   calling. 
"For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
From  the  clover  lift  your  head; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginne  to  think  how  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow. 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sliarpe  and  strong; 
And  all  the  air,  it  seemeth  mee. 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee). 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay. 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene, 
Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greenej 


154  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  lo!  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanheards  where  their  sedges  are 

Move  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth; 
TIU  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  dovra  that  kyndly  message  free, 
The  "Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows, 

They  sayde,  "And  why  should  this  thing  be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne: 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby '  ?  " 

I  looked  without,  and  lo !   my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main : 
He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  aU  the  welkin  rang  again, 
"  Elizabeth !   Elizabeth !  " 
(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  up  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 

"God  save  you,  mother!"  straight  he  saith; 

"Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 


THE  HIGH  TIDE    (1571).  155 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away, 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long; 

And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 

He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 

To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho  Enderby!  " 

They  rang  ' '  The  Brides  of  Enderby !  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast; 

For,  lo !   along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed, 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 

Then  bankes  came  down  with  ruin  and  rout— > 

Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 

Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave. 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet: 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night. 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by, 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high  — - 
A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see; 
And  awsome  Dells  they  were  to  mee. 
That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ; 


166  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

And  I  — my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 

And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed; 
And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 
"O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death! 
O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  dearej 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  me: 

But  each  will  mourn  his  ov\ti  (she  saith). 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth. 
Where  the  water  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobl)ing,  throbbing:,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore; 


SAM'S   LETTER.  157 

I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 

From  the  clover  lift  your  liead; 

Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

Jean  Ingelow, 


SAM'S  LETTER. 


I  "WONDER  who  w-wote  me  this  letter.  I  thuppose  the 
b-best  way  to  f-find  out  ith  to  open  it  and  thee.  {Opens 
letter.)  Thome  lun-lunatic  hath  w-witten  me  this  letter.  He 
hath  w-witten  't  upthide  down.  I  wonder  if  he  th-thought  I 
wath  going  to  w-wead  it  thanding  on  my  head.  Oh,  yeth,  I 
thee;  I  had  it  t-t-turned  upthide  down.  "Amewica."  Who 
do  I  know  in  Amewica?  I  am  glad  he  hath  g-given  me  hith 
addwess  anyhow.  Oh,  yeth,  I  thee,  it  ith  from  Tham.  I 
alwaths  know  Tham's  handwiting  when  I  thee  hith  name  at 
the  b-bottom  of  it.  "My  dear  browther  —  "  Tham  alwaths 
called  me  bwother.  I-I  thuppose  iths  because  hith  m-mother 
and  my  mother  wath  the  thame  woman,  and  we  never  had  any 
thisters.  When  we  were  boyths  we  were  ladths  together.  They 
used  to  ge-get  off  a  pwoverb  when  they  thaw  uth  com-coming 
down  the  stweet.  It  ith  vewy  good,  if  I  could  only  think  of 
it.  I  can  never  wecollect  anything  that  I  can't  we-wemember. 
Iths  —  it  iths  the  early  bir-bird  —  iths  the  early  bir-bird  that 
knowths  iths  own  father.  What  nou-nonthense  that  iths  !  How 
co-could  a  bir-bird  know  iths  own  father  ?  Iths  a  withe  —  iths  a 
withe  child  —  iths  a  withe  child  that  geths  the  wom.  T-that  's 
not  wite.    What  non-nonthense  that  iths  !     No  pa-pawent  would 


158  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

allow  his  child  to  ga -gather  woms.  Iths  a  wyme.  Iths  fish 
of -of  a  feather.  Fish  of  a  fea  —  What  non-nonthense !  for 
fish  don't  have  feathers.  Iths  a  bir-bird  —  iths  b-birds  of  a 
feather  —  b-birds  of  a  feather  flock  together.  B-birds  of  a 
feather  !  Just  as  if  a  who-who-whole  flock  of  b-birds  had  only 
one  f-feather.  They'd  all  catch  cold,  and  only  one  b-bird 
c-could  have  that  f-feather,  and  he'd  fly  sidewithse.  What 
con-confounded  nonthense  that  iths  !  Flock  to-together !  Of 
courthse  th-they  'd  flock  together.  Who  ever  her-heard  of  a 
bird  being  such  a  f-fool  as  to  g-go  into  a  c-corner  and  fl-flock 
by  himself?  "I  wo-wote  you  a  letter  thome  time  ago — " 
Thath  's  a  lie ;  he  d-did  u't  wi-wite  me  a  letter.  If  he  had 
witten  me  a  letter  he  would  have  posted  it,  aud  I  would  have 
g-got  it ;  so,  of  courthse,  he  did  n't  post  it,  and  then  he  did  n't 
wite  it.  Thath 's  easy.  Oh,  yeths,  I  thee:  "but  I  dwopped 
it  into  the  potht-potht-office  forgetting  to  diwect  it."  I  wonder 
who  the  d-dic-dickens  got  that  letter.  I  wonder  if  the  poth- 
pothman  iths  gwoin'  awound  inquiring  for  a  f-fellow  without  a 
name.  I  wonder  if  there  iths  any  fel-fellow  without  any  name. 
If  there  iths  any  fel-fellow  without  any  name,  how  doeths  he 
know  who  he  iths  himthelf  ?  I-I  wonder  if  thuch  a  fellow  could 
get  mawaid.  How  could  he  ask  hiths  wife  to  take  hiths  name 
if  he  h-had  no  name?  Thath 's  one  of  thothse  things  no  fellow 
can  f-find  out.  "  I  have  just  made  a  startling  dithcovery." 
Tham  's  alwayths  d-doing  thomthing.  "  I  have  dithcovered 
that  my  mother  iths  —  that  ra-my  mother  iths  not  mym-mother ; 
that  a  —  the  old  nurse  iths  my  mother,  and  that  you  are  not 
ray  b-bwother,  and  a  —  tha-that  I  was  changed  at  my  birth." 
How  c-can  a  fellow  be  changed  at  hith  birth?  If  he  iths 
not  himthelf,  who  iths  he?  If  Tham's  m-mother  iths  not  hith 
m-mothur,  and  tlie  nurthse  iths  hith  motlicr,  and  Tham  ith  n't 
my  bwother,  who  am  I  ?  That 's  one  of  thothse  things  that 
no  fel-ffll(;w  can  find  out.  '  I  have  p-purchased  an  ethstate 
■om-8omewhere  —  "     Doth  u't  the  id-idiot  know  wh-where  h-he 


WARREN'S  ADDRESS  AT   BUNKER  HILL.  159 

hath  bought  it?  Oh,  yeths  :  "  on  the  bankths  of  the  M-M-Mith- 
ithippi."  Wh-who  iths  M-Mithithippi?  I  g-gueth  ith  'a  Tham's 
m-mother-in-1-law.  Tham  's  got  mawaid.  He  th-thaylhs  he  felt 
v-vewy  uer-nervous.  He  alwayths  waths  a  hicky  fellow  getting 
things  he  did  n't  want,  and  had  n't  any  use  for.  Thpeaking 
of  mother-in-lawths,  I  had  a  fwiend  who  had  a  mother-in-law, 
and  he  did  n't  like  her  pwetty  well ;  and  she  f-felt  the  thame 
way  towards  him  ;  and  they  went  away  on  a  st-steamer  acwoths 
the  ocean,  and  they  got  wecked,  catht  away  on  a  waft,  and 
they  floated  awound  with  their  feet  in  the  water  and  other 
amuthements,  living  on  thuch  things  ath  they  could  pick  up  — 
thardinths,  ithcweam,  owanges,  and  other  c-canned  goodths 
that  were  floating  awound.  "When  that  waths  all  gone,  every- 
body ate  everybody  elthe.  F-finally  only  himthelf  and  hiths 
m-mother-in-law  waths  left,  and  they  pl-played  a  game  of 
c-cards  to  thee  who  thould  be  eaten  up  —  himthelf  or  hith 
mother-in-law.  A-a  —  the  mother-in-law  lotht.  H-he  treated 
her  handthomely,  only  he  strapped  h-her  flat  on  her  back,  and 
c-carved  her  gently.  H-h-he  thays  that  waths  the  f-first  time 
that  he  ever  weally  enjoyed  a  m-mother-in-law. 

From  Dundreary. 


WAEEEN'S  ADDRESS  AT  BUNKER  HILL. 

QiTAND!   the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  I 
'^     Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel! 

Ask  it  —  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 
Look  behind  you  I  they're  a-flre! 
And,  before  you,  see  — 


160  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Who  have  done  it !  —  from  the  vale 
On  they  come! — and  will  ye  quail?  — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust! 

Die  we  may, — and  die  Ave  must;  — 

But,  oh !   where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell! 


Pierpofit. 


ON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE. 

"TT^  ARTH  has  not  any  thing  to  show  more  fair :  , 
-*— ^     Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  city  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare. 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky. 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep. 

The  river  glidcth  at  his  own  sweet  will. 
Dear  God,  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still. 


Wordeworth. 


NATURE  AND  RULES. 
XN  what  sense  is  the  word  "  correctness  "  used  by  those  who 
-^  say  that  Pope  was  the  most  correct  of  Englisli  poets,  and 
that  next  to  Pope  came  the  late  Mr.  Gifford?  What  is  the 
nature  and  vaUie  of  that  correctness,  tlie  praise  of  which  is 
denied  to  Macbeth,  to  Lear,  and  to  Othello,  and  given  to 
Hoole's  translations  and  to  all  the  .Seatonian  prize  poems? 
We  can  discover  no  eternal  rule,  no  rule  founded  in  reason 
and  in  the  nature  of  things,  which  Shakespeare  does  not  observe 


NATURE   AND   RULES.  IGl 

mucfi  more  strictly  than  Pope.  But,  if  by  correctness  be  meant 
a  strict  attention  to  certain  ceremonious  observances,  which  are 
no  more  essential  to  poetry  than  etiquette  to  good  government, 
or  than  the  washings  of  a  Pharisee  to  devotion,  then,  assuredly, 
Pope  may  be  a  more  correct  poet  than  Shakespeare  ;  and  if  the 
code  were  a  little  altered.  Col  ley  Gibber  might  be  a  more  cor- 
rect poet  than  Pope.  But  it  may  be  well  doubted  whether  this 
kind  of  correctness  be  a  merit,  nay,  whether  it  be  not  an  abso- 
lute fault. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  make  a  digest  of  the  irrational  laws 
which  bad  critics  have  framed  for  the  government  of  poets. 
First  in  celebrity  and  in  absurdity  stand  the  dramatic  unities  of 
place  and  time.  No  human  being  has  ever  been  able  to  find 
anything  that  could,  even  by  courtesy,  be  called  an  argument 
for  these  unities,  except  that  they  have  been  deduced  from  the 
general  practice  of  the  Greeks.  It  requires  no  very  profound 
examination  to  discover  that  the  Greek  dramas,  often  admira- 
ble as  compositions,  are,  as  exhibitions  of  human  character  and 
human  life,  far  inferior  to  the  English  plays  of  the  age  of 
Elizabeth.  Every  scholar  knows  that  the  dramatic  part  of  the 
Athenian  tragedies  was  at  first  subordinate  to  the  lyrical  part. 
It  would,  therefore,  have  been  little  less  than  a  miracle  if  the 
laws  of  the  Athenian  stage  had  been  found  to  suit  plays  in 
which  there  was  no  chorus.  All  the  greatest  masterpieces  of 
the  dramatic  art  have  been  composed  in  the  direct  violation 
of  the  unities,  and  could  never  have  been  composed  if  the 
unities  had  not  been  violated.  It  is  clear,  for  example,  that 
such  a  character  as  that  of  Hamlet  could  never  have  been  de- 
veloped within  the  limits  to  which  Alfieri  confined  himself. 
Yet  such  was  the  reverence  of  literary  men  during  the  last 
century  for  these  unities,  that  Johnson,  who,  much  to  his  honor, 
took  the  opposite  side,  was,  as  he  says,  "  frightened  at  his  own 
temerity,"  and  "  afraid  to  stand  against  the  authorities  which 
might  be  produced  against  him." 


162  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

There  are  other  rules  of  the  same  kind  without  end.  "  Shake- 
speare," says  Eymer,  "ought  not  to  have  made  Othello  black; 
for  the  hero  of  a  tragedy  ought  always  to  be  white."  "  Milton," 
says  another  critic,  "ought  not  to  have  taken  Adam  for  his 
hero ;  for  the  hero  of  an  epic  poem  ought  always  to  be  vic- 
torious." "Milton,"  says  another,  "ought  not  to  have  put  so 
many  similes  into  his  first  book ;  for  the  first  book  of  an  epic 
poem  ought  always  to  be  the  most  unadorned.  There  are  no 
similes  in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad."  "Milton,"  says  an- 
other, "  ought  not  to  have  placed  in  an  epic  poem  such  lines  as 
these :  — 

"  '  While  thus  I  called,  and  strayed  I  knew  not  whither.' " 
And  why  not.      The  critic  is  ready  with  a  reason.      "  Such 
lines,"  says  he,  "  are  not,  it  must  be  allowed,  uupleasing  to  the 
ear ;  but  the  redundant  syllable  ought  to  be  confined  to  the 
drama,  and  not  admitted  into  epic  poetry." 

Another  law  of  heroic  rhyme,  which,  fifty  years  ago,  was 
considered  as  fundamental,  was,  that  there  should  be  a  pause, 
a  comma  at  least,  at  the  end  of  every  couplet.  It  was  also 
provided  that  there  should  never  be  a  full  stop  except  at  the 
end  of  a  line. 

Sir  Roger  Newdigate  is  fairly  entitled,  we  think,  to  be  ranked 
among  the  great  critics  of  this  school.  He  made  a  law  that 
none  of  the  poems  written  for  the  prize  which  he  established  at 
Oxford  should  exceed  fifty  lines.  This  law  seems  to  us  to  have 
at  least  as  much  foundation  in  reason  as  any  of  those  which  we 
have  mentioned  ;  nay,  much  more,  for  the  world,  we  believe,  is 
pretty  well  agreed  in  thinking  that  the  shorter  a  prize  poem  is, 
the  better. 

We  do  not  see  why  we  should  not  make  a  few  more  rules  of 
the  same  kind  ;  why  we  should  not  enact  that  the  number  of 
scenes  in  every  net  shall  be  three  or  some  multiple  of  three, 
that  the  number  of  lines  in  every  scene  shall  be  an  exact 
square,  that  the  dramatis  personce  shall  never  be  more  or  fewei 


NATURE   AND   RULES.  188 

than  sixteen,  and  that,  in  heroic  rhymes,  every  thirty-sixth  line 
shall  have  twelve  syllables.  If  we  were  to  lay  down  these 
canons,  and  to  call  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and  Addison  incorrect 
writers  for  not  having  complied  with  our  whims,  we  should  act 
precisely  as  those  critics  act  who  find  incorrectness  in  the  mag- 
nificent imagery  and  the  varied  music  of  Coleridge  and  Shelley 

The  correctness  which  the  last  century  prized  so  much  re 
sembles  the  correctness  of  those  pictures  of  the  garden  of 
Eden  which  we  see  in  old  Bibles.  We  have  an  exact  square, 
enclosed  by  the  rivers  Pison,  Gihon,  Hiddekel,  and  Euphrates, 
each  with  a  convenient  bridge  in  the  centre,  rectangular  beds 
of  flowers,  a  long  canal,  neatly  bricked  and  railed  in,  the  tree  of 
knowledge,  clipped  like  one  of  the  limes  behind  the  Tuileries, 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  grand  alley,  the  snake  twined 
round  it,  the  man  on  the  right  hand,  the  woman  on  the  left, 
and  the  beasts  drawn  up  in  an  exact  circle  round  them.  In 
one  sense  the  picture  is  correct  enough.  That  is  to  say,  the 
squares  are  correct,  the  circles  are  correct,  the  man  and  the 
woman  are  in  a  most  correct  line  of  the  tree,  and  the  snake 
forms  a  most  correct  spiral. 

But  if  there  were  a  painter  so  gifted  that  he  could  place  on 
the  canvas  that  glorious  paradise,  seen  by  the  interior  eye  of 
him  whose  outward  sight  had  failed  with  long  watching  and 
laboring  for  liberty  and  truth,  if  there  were  a  painter  who  could 
set  before  us  the  mazes  of  the  sapphire  brook,  the  lake  with  its 
fringe  of  myrtles,  the  flowery  meadows,  the  grottos  overhung 
by  vines,  the  forests  shining  with  Hesperian  fruit  and  with  the 
plumage  of  gorgeous  birds,  the  massy  shade  of  that  nuptial 
bower  which  showered  down  roses  on  the  sleeping  lovers,  what 
should  we  think  of  a  connoisseur  who  should  tell  us  that  this 
painting,  though  finer  than  the  absurd  picture  in  the  old  Bible, 
was  not  so  correct?  Surely  we  should  answer,  It  is  both  finer 
and  more  correct ;  and  it  is  finer  because  it  is  more  coi'rect. 
ft  is  not  made  up  of  coiTCctly  drawn  diagrams ;  but  it  is  a 


164  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

correct  painting,   a  worthy  representation  of  that  which  it  is 
intended  to  represent. 

It  is  not  in  the  fine  arts  alone  that  this  false  correctness  is 
prized  by  narrow-minded  men,  by  men  who  cannot  distin- 
guish means  from  ends,  or  what  is  accidental  from  what  is 
essential.  M.  Jourdain  admired  correctness  in  fencing.  "You 
had  no  business  to  hit  me  then.  You  must  never  thrust  in 
quart  till  you  have  thrust  in  tierce."  M,  Tomes  liked  correct- 
ness in  medical  practice.  "I  stand  up  for  Artemius.  That 
he  killed  his  patieut  is  plain  enough.  But  still  he  acted  quite 
according  to  rule.  A  man  dead  is  a  man  dead,  and  there  is 
an  end  of  the  matter.  But  if  rules  are  to  be  broken  there  is 
no  saying  what  consequences  may  follow."  We  have  heard 
of  an  old  German  officer,  who  was  a  great  admirer  of  correct- 
ness in  military  operations.  He  used  to  revile  Bonaparte  for 
spoiling  the  science  of  war,  which  had  been  carried  to  such 
exquisite  perfection  by  Marshal  Daun.  "In  my  youth  we 
used  to  march  and  countermarch  all  the  summer  without  gain- 
ing or  losing  a  square  league,  and  then  we  went  into  winter 
quarters.  And  now  comes  an  ignorant,  hot-headed  young  man, 
who  flies  about  from  Bologne  to  Ulm,  and  from  Ulm  to  the 
middle  of  Moravia,  and  fights  battles  in  December.  The  whole 
System  of  his  tactics  is  monstrously  incorrect."  The  world  is 
of  opinion,  in  spite  of  critics  like  these,  that  the  end  of  fencing 
Is  to  hit,  that  the  end  of  medicine  is  to  cure,  that  the  end  of 
war  is  to  conquer,  and  that  those  means  are  the  moat  correct 
which  best  accomplish  the  ends. 

And  has  poetry  no  end,  no  eternal  and  immutable  principles? 
Since  its  first  great  masterpieces  were  produced,  everything  that 
is  changeable  in  this  world  has  been  changed.  Civilization  has 
been  gained,  lost,  gained  again.  Religions,  the  languages,  and 
forms  of  government,  and  usages  of  private  life,  and  modes 
of  thinking,  all  have  undergone  a  succession  of  revolutions. 
Everything  has  passed  away  but  the  great  features  of  nature, 


CHARGE   OF   THE   LIGHT    UlUGADE.  165 

and  the  heart  of  man,  and  the  miracles  of  that  art  whose  office 
it  is  to  reflect  back  the  heart  of  man  and  the  features  of 
nature.  Those  two  strange  old  poems,  the  wonder  of  ninety 
generations,  still  retain  all  their  freshness.  They  still  command 
the  veneration  of  minds  enriched  by  the  literature  of  many  na- 
tions and  ages.  They  are  still,  even  in  wretched  translations, 
the  delight  of  school-boys.  Having  survived  ten  thousand  ca- 
pricious fashions,  having  seen  successive  codes  of  criticism 
become  obsolete,  they  still  remain  to  us,  immortal  with  the 
immortality  of  truth,  the  same  when  perused  in  the  study  of 
an  English  scholar,  as  when  they  were  first  chanted  at  tr? 
banquets  of  the  Ionian  princes. 

Jfacaulay' 


LTJOT. 

SHE  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid, whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  f ew- to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye; 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

"When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  diflference  to  me! 


\Vor<l$>rorth 


OHAEGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE, 
TTTALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
-*— *-    Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward,  the  I-iglit  Brigade  I 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  saidi 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


leO  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered! 
Theirs  not  to  malie  reply; 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why; 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  vallej'  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  riglit  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered: 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well; 
Into  the  jaws  of  death. 
Into  the  mouth  of  HeU, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare. 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered! 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke. 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke  i 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke. 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back;  but  not  — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered : 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell,  j 

While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 


SCENES  FROM  "THE  RIVALS."  Iff! 

Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them  — 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 

O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wondered. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade,  — 

Noble  six  hundred ! 

Tennyson, 


SCENES  PROM  "  THE  EIVAL8." 
I. 
rlAPT.  A.    Now  for  a  parental  lecture.    I  hope  he  has  heard  noth'ng 
of  the  business  that  has  brought  me  here.    I  wish  the  gout  had 
held  him  fast  in  Devonshire,  with  all  my  soul ! 

Enter  Sir  Anthony. 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here,  and  looking  so  weU  I  — 
your  sudden  arrival  at  Bath  made  me  apprehensive  for  your  health. 

Sir  A.  Very  apprehensive,  I  dare  say,  Jack.  —  "Wliat,  you  are  re- 
cruiting here,  hey? 

Capt.  A.    Yes,  sir,  I  am  on  duty. 

Sir  A.  Well,  Jack,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I  did  not  expect  it ; 
for  I  was  going  to  write  to  you  on  a  little  matter  of  business.  —  Jack, 
I  have  been  considering  that  I  grow  old  and  infirm,  and  shall  probably 
not  trouble  you  long. 

Capt.  A.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  saw  you  look  more  strong  ani 
hearty,  and  I  pray  fervently  that  you  may  continue  so. 

Sir  A.  I  hope  your  prayers  may  be  heard,  with  all  my  heart.  Well, 
then.  Jack,  I  have  been  considering  that  I  am  so  strong  and  hearty,  I 
may  continue  to  plague  you  a  long  time.  —  Now,  Jack,  1  am  sensible 
that  the  income  of  your  commission,  and  what  I  have  hitherto  allowed 
you,  is  but  a  small  pittance  for  a  lad  of  your  spirit. 

Capt.  A.    Sir,  you  are  very  good. 

Sir  A.  And  it  is  my  wish,  while  yet  I  live,  to  have  my  boy  make 
some  figure  in  the  world.  —  I  have  resolved,  therefore,  to  fix  you  at 
onca  in  a  noble  independence. 


168  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  yom-  kindness  overpowers  me.  —  Yet,  sir,  I  presume 
you  would  not  wish  me  to  quit  tlie  army? 

Sir  A.     Oil !  that  shall  be  as  your  wife  chooses. 

Capt.  A.    My  wife,  sir ! 

Sir  A.    Aj,  ay,  settle  that  between  you,  —  settle  that  between  you. 

Capt.  A.    A  wife,  sir,  did  you  say? 

Sir  A.     Ay,  a  wife :  why,  did  not  I  mention  her  before? 

Capt.  A.     Not  a  word  of  her,  sir. 

Sir  A.  Oddso!  I  mustn't  forget  her,  though. — Yes,  Jack,  the  In- 
dependence I  was  talking  of,  is  by  a  marriage,  — the  fortune  is  saddled 
with  a  wife,  — but,  I  suppose,  that  makes  no  difference? 

Vapt.  A.     Sir !  sir !  you  amaze  me ! 

Sir  A.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  with  the  fool?  Just  now  you  were 
all  gratitude  and  duty. 

Capt.  A.  1  was,  sir,  — you  talked  to  me  of  independence  and  a  for- 
ilme,  but  not  a  word  of  a  wife. 

Sir  A.  Why,  what  difference  does  that  make?  Odds  life,  sir!  if 
yovi.  have  the  estate,  you  must  take  it  with  the  live  stock  on  It,  as  It 
stands. 

Capt.  A.    Pray,  sir,  who  is  the  lady? 

Sir  A.  What  s  that  to  you,  sir?  —  Come,  give  ma  your  promise  to 
love,  and  to  many  her  directly. 

Capt.  A.  Sure,  sir,  this  is  not  very  reasonable,  to  summon  my  affec- 
tions for  a  lady  I  know  nothing  of ! 

Sir  A.  I  am  sure,  sir,  't  is  more  unreasonable  in  you  to  object  to  a 
lady  you  know  nothing  of. 

Capt.  A.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  that  in 
this  point  I  cannot  obey  you. 

Sir  A.  Harkye,  Jack !  —  I  have  heard  you  for  some  time  with 
patience  —  I  have  been  cool  —  quite  cool ;  but  take  care  —  you  know  I  am 
compliance  Itself  —  when  I  am  not  thwarted ;  no  one  more  easily  led  — 
when  I  have  my  own  way ;  — but  don't  put  me  ip  «  frenzy. 

Capt.  A.     Sir,  I  must  repeat  it  —  in  this,  I  cannot  obey  yon. 

Sir  A.     Now,  hang  me,  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack  again  while  I  live  I 

Capt.  A.    Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me. 

Sir  A.  Sir,  I  won't  hear  a  word  —  not  a  word  I  not  one  word  I  so 
give  me  your  promise  by  a  nod  —  and  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Jack  —  I  mean 
you  dog  —  If  you  don't,  by  — 

Capt.  A.   What,  sir,  promise  to  link  myself  to  some  mass  of  ugliness  I 


SCENES   FROM    ^'TIIE   RIVALS."  169 

Sir  A.  Zounds  I  sirrah  I  the  lady  shall  be  as  ugly  as  I  choose  :  she 
shall  have  a  hump  on  each  shoulder ;  she  shall  be  as  crooked  as  the 
crescent ;  her  one  eye  shall  roll  like  the  bull's  in  Cox's  Museum ;  she 
shall  have  a  skin  like  a  mummy,  and  the  beard  of  a  Jew,  — she  shall  be 
*11  this,  sirrah !  —  yet  I  '11  make  you  ogle  her  all  day,  and  sit  up  all  night, 
\o  write  sonnets  on  her  beauty. 

Capt.  A.     This  is  reason  and  moderation  indeed ! 

Sir  A.     None  of  your  sneering,  puppy  !  no  grinning,  jackanapes! 

Capt.  A.  Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  in  a  worse  humor  for  mirth  in  my 
life. 

Sir  A.  'T  is  false,  sir ;  I  know  you  are  laughing  in  your  sleeve ;  I 
know  you'll  grin  when  I  am  gone,  sirrah! 

Capt.  A.     Sir,  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  better. 

Sir  A.  None  of  your  passion,  sir !  none  of  your  violence,  if  you 
please.    It  won't  do  with  me,  I  promise  you. 

Capt.  A.    Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  cooler  in  my  life. 

Sir  A.  'T  is  a  lie  !  —  I  know  you  are  in  a  passion  in  your  heart ;  I 
know  you  are,  you  hypocritical  young  dog;  but  it  won't  do. 

Capt.  A.     Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word  — 

Sir  A.  So  3'ou  will  fly  out !  Can't  you  be  cool,  like  me !  —  "What 
good  can  passion  do?  —  passion  is  of  no  service,  you  impudent,  inso- 
lent, overbearing  reprobate! — There,  you  sneer  again!  —don't  pro- 
voke  me !  but  you  rely  upon  the  mildness  of  my  temper  —  you  do,  you 
dog  I  You  play  upon  the  meekness  of  my  disposition !  Yet  take  care 
—  the  patience  of  a  saint  maybe  overcome  at  last! — but  mark!  —  I 
give  you  six  hours  and  a  half  to  consider  of  this  :  if  you  then  agree, 
■without  any  condition,  to  do  everything  on  earth  that  I  choose,  why  — 
confound  you,  I  may  in  time  forgive  you.  If  not,  zounds !  don't  enter 
the  same  hemisphere  with  me !  don't  dare  to  breathe  the  same  air,  or 
use  the  same  light  with  me ;  but  get  an  atmosphere  and  a  sun  of  your 
own !  I  '11  strip  you  of  your  commission ;  I  '11  lodge  a  flve-and-three- 
pence  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  and  you  shall  live  on  the  interest.  I  '11 
disown  you;  I'll  disinherit  you,  and,  hang  me!  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack 
again  1  [Exit. 

Capt.  A.     Mild,  gentle,  considerate  father!  I  kiss  your  hands. 

u. 

Capt.  A.  'T  is  just  as  Fag  told  me,  indeed! — Whimsical  enough, 
•faith  1  My  father  wants  to  force  me  to  marry  the  very  girl  I  am  plan- 
ning to  run  away  with !    He  must  not  know  of  my  connection  with  het 


]70  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

yet  awhile.  He  has  too  summarj^  a  method  of  proceeding  in  these  mat. 
ters;  however,  I'll  read  my  recantation  instantly.  My  conversion  Is 
something  sudden,  indeed;  but  I  can  assure  him,  it  is  very  sincere.— 
So,  so,  here  he  comes  —  he  looks  plaguy  gruff  I 

Enter  Sir  Anthony. 

.Sir  A.  No — I '11  die  sooner  than  forgive  him !  Die,  did  I  say?  Ill 
live  these  fifty  years  to  plague  him.  At  our  last  meeting  his  impudence 
had  almost  put  me  out  of  temper  —  an  obstinate,  passionate,  self-willed 
boy  1  Who  can  he  take  after?  This  is  my  return  for  putting  him,  at 
twelve  years  old,  into  a  marching  regiment,  and  allowing  him  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  besides  his  pay,  ever  since !  But  I  have  done  with  him 
—  he's  anybody's  son  for  me  —  I  never  will  see  him  more  —  never- 
never  —  never  —  never. 

Capt.  A.     Now  for  a  penitential  face ! 

Sir  A.    Fellow,  get  out  of  my  way ! 

Capt.  A.     Sir,  you  see  a  penitent  before  you. 

Sir  A.     I  see  an  impudent  scoundrel  before  me. 

Capt.  A.  A  sincere  penitent.  I  am  come,  sir,  to  acknowledge  my 
error,  and  to  submit  entirely  to  your  will. 

Sir  A.     What's  that? 

Capt.  A.  I  have  been  revolving,  and  reflecting,  and  considering  on 
your  past  goodness,  and  kindness,  and  condescension  to  me. 

Sir  A.     Well,  sir! 

Capt.  A.  I  have  been  likewise  weighing  and  balancing  what  you 
were  pleased  to  mention  concerning  duty,  and  obedience,  and  au- 
thority. 

Sir  A.  Why,  now,  you  talk  sense,  absolute  sense ;  I  never  heard 
anything  more  sensible  in  my  life.  Confound  you,  you  shall  be  Jack 
again ! 

Capt.  A.    I  am  happy  in  the  appellation. 

Sir  A.  Why,  then,  Jack,  my  dear  Jack,  I  will  now  inform  you  who 
the  lady  really  Is.  Nothing  but  your  passion  and  violence,  you  silly 
fellow,  prevented  me  telling  you  at  first.  Prepare,  Jack,  for  wonder 
and  rapture  —  prepare !     What  think  you  of  Miss  Lydia  Languish? 

Capt,  A.     Languish  1    What,  the  Languishes  of  Worcestershire ! 

Sir  A.  Worcestershire!  No  I  Did  you  never  meet  Mrs.  Malaprop 
and  her  niece.  Miss  Languish,  who  came  into  our  country  just  before 
you  were  last  ordered  to  your  regiment? 

Capt.  A.    Malaprop  1    Languish  I    I  don't  remember  ever  to  have 


SCENES  FROM   "THE   KIVALS."  171 

Aeard  the  name  before.     Tet,  stay :  I  think  I  do  recollect  something. 
Languish  —  Languish !    She  squints,  don't  she?    A  little  red-haired  girl? 

Sir  A.     Squints !     A  red-haired  girl !     Zounds,  no ! 

Capt.  A.    Then  I  must  have  forgot :  it  can't  be  the  same  person. 

Sir  A.  Jack,  Jack !  what  think  you  of  blooming,  love-breathing 
seventeen? 

Capt.  A.  As  to  tliat,  sir,  I  am  quite  indifferent ;  if  I  can  please  you 
in  the  matter,  't  is  all  I  desire. 

Sir  A.  Nay,  but  Jack,  such  eyes !  such  eyes !  so  innocently  wild ! 
so  bashfully  irresolute !  Not  a  glance  but  speaks  and  kindles  some 
thouglit  of  love  1  Then,  Jack,  her  cheeks !  her  cheeks,  Jack !  sc  deeply 
blushing  at  the  insinuations  of  her  telltale  eyes!  Then,  Jack,  her 
lips !  Oh,  Jack,  lips,  smiling  at  their  own  discretion  !  and,  if  not  smil- 
ing, more  sweetly  pouting  —  more  lovely  in  sullenness!  Then,  Jack, 
her  neck  !     Oh !  Jack !  Jack ! 

Capt   A.     And  which  is  to  be  mine,  sir  :  the  niece,  or  the  aunt? 

Sir  A.  Why,  you  unfeeling,  insensible  puppy,  I  despise  you !  When 
I  was  of  your  age,  such  a  description  would  have  made  me  fly  like  a 
rocket !  The  aunt,  indeed !  Odds  life !  when  I  run  away  with  your 
mother,  I  would  not  have  touched  anything  old  or  ugly  to  gain  an 
empire ! 

Capt.  A.     Not  to  please  your  father,  sir? 

Sir  A.  To  please  my  father  —  zounds  1  not  to  please  —  Oh!  my 
father?  Oddso!  yes,  yes!  if  my  father,  indeed,  had  desired  —  that's 
quite  another  matter.  Though  he  was  n't  the  indulgent  father  that  I 
am.  Jack. 

Capt.  A.     I  dare  say  not,  sir. 

Sir  A.  But,  Jack,  you  are  not  sorry  to  find  your  mistress  is  so  beau- 
tiful? 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  I  repeat  it,  if  I  please  )'0u  in  this  affair,  't  is  all  I  de- 
sire. Not  that  I  think  a  woman  the  worse  for  being  handsome ;  but, 
sir,  if  you  please  to  recollect,  you  before  hinted  something  about  a 
hump  or  two,  one  eye,  and  a  few  more  graces  of  that  kind.  Now, 
without  being  very  nice,  I  own  I  should  rather  choose  a  wife  of  mine 
to  have  the  usual  number  of  limbs,  and  a  limited  quantity  of  back ;  and 
though  one  eye  may  be  very  agreeable,  yet,  as  the  prejudice  has  always 
run  in  favor  of  two,  I  would  not  ^vish  to  affect  a  singularity  in  that 
article. 

Sir  A.  What  a  phlegmatic  sot  it  is  !  Why,  sirrah,  you  are  an  an- 
ehorltel  a  vUe,  insensible  stock!     You  a  soldier!  you'r«  a  walking 


172 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 


block,  fit  only  to  dust  the  company's  regimentals  on !    Odds  life,  I  've 
a  great  mind  to  marry  the  girl  myself ! 

Capt.  A.  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,  sir ;  if  you  should  think  of 
addressing  Miss  Languish  yourself,  I  suppose  you  would  have  me 
marry  the  aunt ;  or  if  you  should  change  your  mind,  and  take  the  old 
lacly,  't  is  the  same  to  me  —  I  '11  marry  the  niece. 

Sir  A.  Upon  my  word.  Jack,  thou  art  either  a  very  great  hypocrite, 
or  —  but,  come,  I  know  your  indifference  on  such  a  subject  must  be  all 
a  lie  —  I 'm  sure  it  must.  Come,  now,  hang  yoivr  demure  face ;  come, 
confess.  Jack,  you  have  been  Ijing,  have  n't  you?  You  have  been 
playing  the  hypocrite,  hey?  I'll  never  forgive  you,  if  you  haven't 
been  lying  and  playing  the  hjiJocrite. 

Capt.  A.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  the  respect  and  duty  which  I  bear  to 
you  should  be  so  mistaken. 

Sir  A.  Eespect  and  duty !  But  come  along  with  me.  I  '11  write  a 
note  to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  and  you  shall  visit  the  lady  directly.  Her  eyes 
shall  be  the  Promethean  torch  to  you  —  come  along,  I  '11  never  forgive 
you,  if  you  don't  come  back  stark  mad  with  raptui'e  and  impatience  — 
If  you  don't,  'egad,  I  '11  marry  the  girl  myself  I  [Exeunt. 

Sheridan, 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

"OREAK,  break,  break, 
•^—^     On  thy  cold,  gray  stones,  O  Seal 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  I 
O  well  for  the  sailor-lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bayl 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  stUlI 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Seal 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


Tennytou. 


LONGING   FOR   HOME.  173 

HYMN  TO  DIANA. 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light. 
Goddess  excellently  l)right. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close: 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow    of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  heart 

Space  to  breathe  how  sliort  soever: 

Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 

Goddess  excellently  bright! 

Ben  Jonson 


LONGING  rOR  HOME. 


A      SONG  of  a  boat :  — 
-*-^  There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow: 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote : 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like  snow, 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  wlicn  a  boat 

Went  curtseying  over  tlie  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 
And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear  loved  home: 
iind  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the  boat, 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 


174  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat, 

For  it  is  but  short:  — 
My  boat,  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea, 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly  shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me! 

A  song  of  a  nest : — 
There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow : 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  pressed, 
Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  brim  — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 
"With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest. 

For  it  is  not  long  :  — 
You  shall  never  light,  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 
A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter. 
That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah  happy,  happy  I ! 
^ight  dearly  I  loved  them :  but  when  they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly  — 
O,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue, 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day. 

And — I  wish  I  was  going  too. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  tlie  west? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed? 


THE   KING   OF   DENMARK'S   RIDE.  175 

Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was  set. 

Now  all  its  hope  liath  failed? 
Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 

And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be  : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  sent, 

The  only  home  for  me  — 

Ah  me! 

Jean  Ingelow, 


THE  ZING  OF  DENMAEK'S  EIDE. 

WORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 
(Hurry!) 
That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring* 

(O !   ride  as  though  you  were  flying ! ) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl; 
And  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  is  dying! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed; 

(Hurry  !) 
Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need; 

(0!   ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank ; 
"Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank; 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  burst; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  flrst, 

For  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one; 

(Hurry!) 
They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward  gone* 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din. 
Then  he  dropped ;   and  only  the  king  rode  in 

Where  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying! 


176  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn*, 

(Silence !) 
No  answer  came;    but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gray  mom, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide; 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride-^ 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 
"Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying  i 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest. 

Stood  weary. 
The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest. 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying, 
The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check; 
He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck : 
"  O  steed,  that  every  nerve  didst  strain. 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying ! ' 


Caroline  Norton, 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  JULIUS   O^ISAR. 
Enter  Bkutus  arid  Cassius,  with  a  Throng  of  Citizenn. 
Citizens.     We  will  be  satisfied ;  let  us  be  satisfied. 
Bru.     Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience,  friends. 

Brutus  goes  into  the  Rostrum. 

3  Cit.     The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended :    Silence ! 

Bru.  Be  patient  till  the  last. 
Romans,  countrymen  and  lovers !  hear  me  for  my  cause ;  and  be  silent, 
that  you  may  hear :  believe  me  for  mine  honor ;  and  have  respect  to 
mine  honor,  that  you  may  believe:  censure  me  in  your  wisdom;  and 
awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If  there  be  any  in 
this  assembly,  anj'^  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him  I  say  that  Brutus* 
love  to  Ca;sar  was  no  less  tlian  his.  If,  then,  that  friend  demand  why 
Brutus  rose  against  Ciesar,  this  is  my  answer,  —  Not  that  I  loved  CiEsar 
less,  but  tlint  I  loved  Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Cirsar  were  living, 
and  die  all  slaves,  tlian  that  Cu'sar  were  dead,  to  live  all  freemen?  As 
Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep  fur  him;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it; 


THE   FUNERAL   OF   JULIUS   C^SAE.  177 

as  he  was  valiant,  I  honor  him :  but,  as  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew  him. 
There  is  tears  for  his  love;  joy  for  his  fortune;  honor  for  his  valor; 
and  death  for  his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base  that  would  be  a  bond- 
man? If  any,  speal<;  for  him  have  I  oflended.  WIio  is  here  so  rude 
that  would  not  be  a  Roman?  If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  oflfended. 
Who  is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country?  If  any,  speak ;  for 
him  have  I  offended.     I  pause  for  a  reply. 

Citizens.     None,  Brutus,  none. 

Bru.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done  no  more  to  Caesar 
than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The  question  of  his  death  is  enrolled  in 
the  Capitol ;  his  glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy ;  nor  his 
offences  enforced,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

Enter  Antony  and  others,  with  C^esaij's  body. 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony;  who.  though  he  had 
no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  iu 
the  commonwealth;  as  which  of  you  shall  not?  With  this  I  depart,  — 
That,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the  same 
dagger  for  myself,  when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need  my  death. 
Citizens.     Live,  Brutus  !  live,  live! 

1  Cit.     Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto  his  house. 

2  Cit.     Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

3  Cit.     Let  him  be  Caesar. 

4  Cit.  Caesar's  better  parts 
Shall  now  be  crowned  in  Brutus. 

1  Cit.     We  '11  bring  him  to  his  house  with  shouts  and  clamors. 
Bru.     My  countrymen,  — 

2  Cit.  Peace !  silence !  Brutus  speaks. 
1  Cit.    Peace,  ho ! 

Bru.     Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone; 
And,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony : 
Do  grace  to  Ciesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glory ;  which  Mark  Antony, 
By  our  permission,  is  allow'd  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart. 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  TJSxtt. 

1  Cit.     Stay,  ho !  and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 

8  Cit.    Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair; 
We'll  hear  him.  —Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Ant.     For  Brutus' sake,  I  am  beholding  to  you.  lOoes  up. 


J 73  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

4  Cit.    What  does  he  say  of  Brutus? 

3  ^j-^  He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake, 

He  finds  himself  beholding  to  us  all. 

4  Cit.     'T  were  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

1  Cit.     This  Csesar  was  a  tjTant. 

3  Qn^  Nay,  that 's  certain : 

We  're  bless'd,  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2  Cit.     Peace !  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 
Ant.     You  gentle  Romans,  — 

Citizens.  '  Peace,  ho !  let  us  hear  him. 

Ant.    Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears : 
I  come  to  bury  Ctesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones : 
So  let  it  be  with  Csesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Csesar  was  ambitious  : 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault; 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer  d  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest,  — 
For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men,  — 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me: 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  cotl'ers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Csesar  seem  ambitious? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept '. 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stufi": 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown. 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition? 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And,  sure,  he  Is  an  honorable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
But  here  I  am,  to  speak  wliat  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  lovo  him  once,  — not  without  cause; 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  JULIUS   C^SAB.  179 

Wliat  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to  mourn  for  him? 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason  I    Bear  with  me ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  CjEsar, 

And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1  Cit.     Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in  his  sayings. 

2  Cit.     If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
CjEsar  has  had  great  wrong. 

3  Cit.  Has  he  not,  masters  ? 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4  Cit.     Mark'd  ye  his  words?    He  would  not  take  the  crown; 
Therefore  't  is  certain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1  Cit.     If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

2  Cit.     Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with  weeping. 

3  Cit.    There 's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome  than  Antony. 

4  Cit.     Now  mark  him ;  be  begins  again  to  speak. 
Ant.    But  yesterday  the  word  of  Cajsar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world :  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters,  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong. 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men. 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong :  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar, — 

I  found  it  in  his  closet,  — 't  is  his  will : 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament 

(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read). 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills. 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 

4  Cit.     We  "il  hear  the  will ;  read  it,  Mark  Antony. 
Citizens.    The  will,  the  will!     We  will  hear  Ctesar's  wilL 
Ant.     Have  patience,  gentle  friends  ;  I  must  not  read  it: 

It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 


180  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Tou  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men; 
Aud,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Cajsar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad. 
'T  is  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For,  if  you  should,  0,  what  would  come  of  it! 

4  Cit.    Read  the  wiU !  we  '11  hear  it,  Antony; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will —  Caesar's  will ! 

Ant.    Will  you  be  patient?  will  you  stay  awhile? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Cajsar ;  I  do  fear  it. 

4  Cit.    They  were  traitors  :  honorable  men ! 

Citizens.     The  will !  the  testament ! 

2  Cit.     They  were  villains,  murderers.     The  will!  read  the  will! 

Ant.    You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will? 
Tlien  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend?  and  will  you  give  me  leave? 

Citizens.     Come  down. 

2  Cit.    Descend.  \_He  comes  dowiu 

3  Cit.     You  sl.-il!  have  leave. 

4  Cit.    A  ring !  stand  round. 

1  Cit.     Stand  from  the  hearse ;  stand  from  the  body. 

2  Cit.  Room  for  Antony !  —  most  noble  Antony ! 
Ant.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far'  off". 
Citizens.     Stand  back ;  room !  bear  back. 

Ant.    If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Ca;sar  put  it  on ;  ^ 

'T  was  on  a  summer's  evening,  ih  his  tent, 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 
Look,  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through : 
See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 
Through  this  the  wcU-belovcd  Brutus  stabb'd; 
And,  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Ca;sar  foUow'd  it, — 
As  rusliiug  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel* 
Judge,  O  you  godS;  how  dearly  Csesai-  lov'd  hlral 


THE  FUNERAL   OF  JULIUS   C^SAR.  181 

This  was  the  most  imkiiulcst  cut  of  all; 

For,  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  liim  stab, 

Ingratitiidc,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 

Quite  vanquish'd  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart; 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua, 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  gi'eat  Caesar  felL 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen! 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 

The  dint  of  pity :  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you,  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded?    Look  you  here, 

Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1  Cit,    O  piteous  spectacle ! 

2  at.     O  noble  Cssar ! 

3  Cit.     O  wof  ul  day ! 

4  Cit.     O  traitors,  villains ! 

1  Cit.     O  most  bloody  sight ! 

2  Cit.     We  will  be  reveng'd. 

Citizens.     Revenge,  —  about,  —  seek,  — bum,  —  fire,—  kill,  —  slay.-r 
let  not  a  traitor  live ! 

Ant.     Stay,  countrymen. 

1  Cit.    Peace  there !  hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2  Cit.     We  '11  hear  him,  we  '11  follow  him,  we  '11  die  with  him. 
Ant.     Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 

To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
*Sniey  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable  : 
•what  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not. 

That  made  them  do  't ;  they  're  wise  and  honorable, 

And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 

I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts : 

I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is ; 

But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man. 

That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  liira. 

For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 

Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech. 

To  stir  men's  blood :  I  only  speak  right  on ; 


132  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb  mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me :  but  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
Citizens.     We  '11  mutiny. 

1  Cit.     We  '11  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 

3  Cit.     Away,  then !  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 

Ant.    Yet  hear  me,  countrymen ;  yet  hear  me  speak. 

Citizens.    Peace,  ho !  hear  Antony ;  most  noble  Antony. 

Ant.     Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not  what. 
Wherein  hath  Cjesar  thus  deser^^'d  your  loves? 
Alas,  you  know  not ;  I  must  tell  you,  then : 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Citizens.    Most  true ;  the  will !  —let 's  stay,  and  hear  the  wiU. 

Ant.     Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2  Cit.    Most  noble  Caesar !  —  we  '11  revenge  his  death. 

3  Cit.    O,  royal  Caesar ! 

Ant.    Hear  me  with  patience. 

Citizens.    Peace,  ho! 

Ant.    Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbors,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber :  he  hath  left  them  you. 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever ;  common  pleasures. 
To  w£ilk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar !  when  comes  such  another? 

1  Cit.    Never,  never.  —  Come,  away,  away  I 
We  '11  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place. 

And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

2  Cit.    Go,  fetch  fire. 

3  Cit.     Pluck  down  benches. 

4  Cit.     Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  any  thing. 

[_Excunt  Citizens  with  the  body. 
Ant.     Now  let  it  work  :  —  Mischief,  thou  art  afoot, 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt  I  Shakespeare. 


I 


TEST    OF   A  BAD   BOOK.  188 

THE  BLUEBIED. 

KNOW  the  song  that  the  bluebird  is  singing. 
Out  in  the  apple-tree  where  he  is  swinging. 

Brave  little  fellow  I  the  skies  may  be  dreary,  — 

Nothing  cares  he  while  his  heart  is  so  cheery. 

Hark !  how  the  music  leaps  out  from  his  throat! 

Hark !  was  there  ever  so  merry  a  note? 

Listen  awhile,  and  you  '11  hear  what  he 's  saying, 

Up  in  the  apple-tree,  swinging  and  swaying. 

"  Dear  little  blossoms  down  under  the  snow, 
You  must  be  weary  of  winter,  I  know ; 
Hark  while  I  sing  you  a  message  of  cheer! 
Summer  is  coming,  and  spring-time  is  here! 
"  Little  white  snow-drop !  I  pray  you  arise ; 
Bright  yellow  crocus !  come,  open  your  eyes; 
Sweet  little  violets,  liid  from  the  cold. 
Put  on  your  mantles  of  purple  and  gold ; 
Daffodils!  daffodils!  say,  do  you  hear?  — 
Summer  is  coming,  and  spring-time  is  here ! " 

Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


TEST  OF  A  BAD  BOOK. 

WOULD  you  know  whether  the  tendency  of  a  book  is  good 
or  evil,  examine  in  what  state  of  mind  you  lay  it  down. 
Has  it  induced  you  to  suspect  that  what  you  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  think  unlawful  may  after  all  be  innocent,  and  that  that 
may  be  harmless  which  you  have  hitherto  been  taught  to  think 
dangerous  ?  Has  it  tended  to  make  you  dissatisfied  and  impa- 
tient under  the  control  of  others,  and  disposed  you  to  relax  in 
that  self-government  without  which  both  the  laws  of  God  and 
man  tell  us  there  can  be  no  virtue,  —  and  consequently  no  hap- 
piness ?  Has  it  attempted  to  abate  your  admiration  and  rever- 
ence for  what  is  great  and  good,  and  to  diminish  in  you  the  love 
of  your  country  and  your  fellow-creatures?  Has  it  addressed 
itself  to  your  pride,  your  vanity,  your  selfishness,  or  any  other 


184  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

of  your  evil  propensities  ?  Has  it  defiled  the  imagination  with 
what  is  loathsome,  and  shocked  the  heart  with  what  is  mon- 
strous? Has  it  disturbed  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong  which 
the  Creator  has  implanted  in  the  human  soul?  If  so,  —  if  you 
are  conscious  of  all  or  any  of  these  effects,  —  or  if,  having 
escaped  from  all,  you  have  felt  that  such  were  the  effects  it  was 
intended  to  produce,  throw  the  book  in  the  fire,  whatever  name 
it  may  bear  in  the  title-page  !  Throw  it  in  the  fire,  young  man, 
though  it  should  have  been  the  gift  of  a  friend  !  —  young  lady, 
away  with  the  whole  set,  though  it  should  be  the  prominent  fur- 
niture of  a  rospwood  bookcase  1 

SotUhey. 


HEEVE  EIEL. 


/^N  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
^-^     Did  the  English  fight  the  French  —  woe  to  France  I 
And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  thro'  the  blue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 

Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Damfrevilla: 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place,  "  Help  the  winners  of  a  race ! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  hai'bor,  take  us  quick  —  or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will!  " 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt  on  board; 

"  Wliy,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  tlicse  to  pass?"  laughed 
tliey : 
'•  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred  and  scored, 
Shall  the  Formidable  here  witli  licr  twelve  and  eighty  guns 

Think  to  make  the  rivcr-moutli  by  the  single  narrow  way. 
Trust  tr  enter  where  't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons, 


EERVE  RIEL.  186 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 
Now  't  is  slaclcest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs,  not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  I " 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight 

Brief  and  bitter  tlie  debate : 

"  Here  's  the  English  at  our  heels ;  would  you  have  them  tsike  In  tow 

All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and  bow, 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound?    Better  run  the  ships  aground  I " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
"  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 

Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  bum  the  vessels  on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

Give  the  word !  "    But  no  such  word 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard ; 

For  ao  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these  — 

A  captain?    A  lieutenant?    A  mate  —  first,  second,  third? 

Wo  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet  with  his  betters  to  compete! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  TourviUe  for  the  fleet 
A  poor  coasting  pilot  he,  Herv6  Riel  the  Crr^lciickesp 

And,  "  Wiiat  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?'   cries  Herv6  Riel : 
"Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?    Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or  rogu«s? 

Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings,  teU 

On  ray  (infers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

TrnjEfc  cue  offing  here  and  Grfeve,  where  the  river  disembogues? 

Are  you  boiight  by  English  gold?    Is  it  love  the  lying '«  for? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day,  have  I  piloted  your  bay, 

Entered  free  and  anchored  fast,  at  the  foot  of  SolJdor. 

Bum  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?    That  were  worse  than  fifty  Hognesf 

Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  I     Sirs,  believe  me  there's  a  way '. 

Only  let  me  lead  tlie  line. 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer,  get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 

Riglit  to  Solidor  past  Greve,  and  there  lay  tliera  safe  and  sound; 

And  if  one  ship  laisbehave,  keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I  've  nothing  but  my  life  —  here 's  my  head  I "  cries  Herv§  Eitf« 


186  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait, 

•'  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great  I 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron ! "  cried  Its  chie£ 
Captains  give  the  sailor  place  1    He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace !    See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound,  clears  the  entrj'  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea's  profound  I 

See,  safe  thro'  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock. 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past,  all  are  harbored  to  the  last, 
And  just  as  Hervd  Riel  hollas  "  Anchor  I "  —  sure  as  fate 
Up  the  English  come,  too  late ! 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance,  let  the  English  rake  the  bay. 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance  as  they  cannonade  away  I 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee !  " 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  captain's  countenance  I 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord,  "  This  is  Paradise  for  Hell  I 

Let  France,  lot  France's  King 

Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing !  " 
"What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word,  "  Herv6  Elel!  * 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  sympt'jm  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend,  I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  tlie  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  :    You  have  saved  the  King  his  shiiw, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith  our  sun  Avas  near  eclipse! 

Domand  whatc'er  you  will,  France  remains  yonr  debtor  stlD. 
A-*ik  to  heart's  content  and  have  !  or  my  name 's  not  DamfrevlUe." 


THE  BRIDGE  OE  SIGHS.  187 

Then,  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke  on  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 

As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through  those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blae  i 

"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty  's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but  a  run?  — 
Since  't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may  — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore  —  Come  I     A  good  whole  holiday  I 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  tlie  Belle  Aurore  I  ** 

That  he  asked  and  that  he  got  —  nothing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost : 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black  on  a  single  fishing  smack. 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England  bore  the  belL 
Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  tlie  Louvre,  face  and  flank! 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Ilervfi  Riel. 
So  for  better  and  for  Avorse,  Herv6  Riel,  accept  my  verse! 
In  my  verse,  Herv6  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife  the  Belle  Aurore! 

Brotoninff, 


TEE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

ONE  more  unfortunate  weary  of  breath,  rashly  importunate,  gone 
to  her  death !  Take  her  up  tenderly,  lift  her  with  care ;  fash- 
lon'd  so  slenderly,  young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments  clinging  like  cerements,  whilst  the  wave 
constantly  drips  from  her  clothing ;  take  her  up  instantly,  loving,  not 
loathing.  Touch  her  not  scornfully ;  think  of  her  mournfully,  gently 
and  humanly;  not  of  the  stains  of  her  —  all  that  remains  of  her  now, 
is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny  into  her  mutiny  rash  and  undutif  ul :  past  all 
dishonor,  death  has  left  on  her  only  the  beautiful.  Still,  for  all  slips  of 
hers,  one  of  Eve's  family  —  wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers  oozing  so 
clammily.  Loop  up  her  tresses  escaped  from  the  comb,  her  fair  auburn 
tresses;  whilst  wonderment  guesses  where  was  her  home? 


ISS  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Who  was  her  father?  Who  was  her  mother?  Had  she  a  sister? 
Had  she  a  brother?  Or  was  there  a  dearer  one  still,  and  a  nearer  one 
yet,  than  all  other?  Alas !  for  the  rarity  of  Christian  charity  under  the 
sun  I  O !  it  was  pitiful !  near  a  whole  city  full,  home  she  had  none. 
Sisterly,  brotherly,  fatherly,  motherly  feelings  had  changed :  love,  by 
harsh  evidence,  tlirown  from  its  eminence;  even  God's  providence 
seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver  so  far  in  the  river,  with  many  a  light,  from 
window  and  casement,  from  garret  to  basement,  she  stood,  with  amaze- 
ment, houseless  by  night.  The  bleak  wind  of  March  made  her  tremble 
and  shiver ;  but  not  the  dark  arch,  or  the  black,  flowing  river ;  mad  from 
life's  history,  glad  to  death's  mystery  swift  to  be  hurl'd  —  anywhere, 
anywhere  out  of  the  world !  In  she  plunged  boldly,  no  matter  how 
coldly  the  rough  river  ran,  over  the  brink  of  it,  —  picture  it,  think  of 
It,  dissolute  Man !  lave  in  it,  drink  of  it,  then,  if  you  can  I 

Take  her  up  tenderly,  lift  her  with  care;  fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
young  and  so  fair !  Ere  her  limbs  frigidly  stiffen  too  rigidly,  decently, 
kindly,  smooth  and  compose  them;  and  her  eyes  close  them,  staring  so 
blindly!  Dreadfully  staring  through  muddy  impurity,  as  when  with 
the  daring  last  look  of  despairing  fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily,  spurr'd  by  contumely,  cold  inhumanity  burning 
insanity  into  her  rest.  —  Cross  her  hands  humbly,  as  if  praying  dumbly, 
over  her  breast  1  Owning  her  weakness,  her  evil  behavior,  and  leaving, 
with  meekness,  her  sins  to  her  Saviour  I 


THE  PASSIOlfS. 


"TTTHEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 

'  '     While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell,  — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, — 
Possessed  oeyoiid  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined : 
Till  once,  't  is  said,  when  all  were  flred. 
Filled  with  fury       rapt,  in.spired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  soua 


THE   PASSIONS.  189 

And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  —  for  Mudness  ruled  the  hour  — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power- 
First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid ; 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made.  — 
Next  Anger  rushed  —  his  eyes  on  fire  — 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings : 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hands,  the  strings.  —> 
With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair  — 

Low  sullen  sounds  !  — his  grief  beguiled; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 

'Twas  sad,  by  fits  —  by  starts,  't  was  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope  I  with  eyes  so  fair  — 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  I 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 
And,  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 

She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  her  song; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft,  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 
4nd  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair 

And  longer  had  she  sung  —  but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose. 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down; 

And,  with  a  withering  look, 

The  war-deuouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woes  5 

And  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 


190  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bui'sting  from  his  head 
Thy  numbers,  Jealousj',  to  naught  were  fixed  — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ! 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed; 

And  now  it  courted  Love  —  now,  raving,  called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired ; 

And,  from  her  wild,  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes,  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soulj 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around. 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole; 

Or,  o'er  some  haunted  streams,  with  fond  delay,  — 
Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing,  — 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But,  oh !  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nympli  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung. 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung,  — 
Tlie  hunter's  call  to  Paun  and  Dryad  known  ! 

The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  tlicir  cliaste-eyed  queen. 

Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 

And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial :  — 
lie,  witii  viny  crown,  advancing, 
First  to  tlie  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed; 

But  soon  lie  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Wliose  sweet,  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

They  would  have  tliought,  who  hoard  tlie  strain, 
They  saw  in  Tempe's  vale  her  native  maids. 


LADY  CLARA   VERE   DE  VERB.  191 

Amid  the  festal-sounding  sliades, 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing? 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
Love  framed  witli  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  — 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound  — ■ 

And  he,  amid  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

ColUnt, 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  "VERE. 

T"  ADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE,  of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown; 
-'-^  you  thought  to  break  a  country  heart  for  pastime,  ere  you  went 
to  town.  At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled  I  saw  the  snare,  and  I 
retired :  the  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls,  you  are  not  one  to  be 
desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Verc,  I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name,  your 
pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine,  too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake  a  heart  that  dotes  on  truer 
charms.  A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower  is  worth  a  hundred  coats- 
of-arms.  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  some  meeker  pupil  you  must 
find,  for  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is,  T  could  not  stoop  to  such 
a  mind.  You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love,  and  my  disdain  is 
my  reply.  The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates  is  not  more  cold  to  you 
than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  you  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown  since  I  beheld  young 
Laurence  dead.  Oh,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies ;  a  great  en- 
chantress you  may  be :  but  there  was  that  across  his  throat  wliich  you 
had  hardly  cared  to  see.  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  when  thus  he  met 
his  mother's  view,  she  had  the  passions  of  her  kind,  she  spake  some 
certain  truths  of  you.  Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word  that  scarce  is 
fit  for  you  to  hear ;  her  manners  had  not  that  repose  which  stamps  the 
caste  of  Vere  de  Vere.  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  there  stands  a  spectre 
in  your  hall :  the  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door :  j^ou  changed  a  whole- 
some heart  to  gall.  You  held  your  course  without  remorse,  to  make 
him  trust  his  modest  worth,  and;  last,  joxx  fixed  a  vacant  stare,  and 
Blew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 


192  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  from  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent, 
the  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife  smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me,  't  Is  only  noble  to  be  good.  Kind  hearts 
are  more  than  coronets,  and  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere :  you  pine  among  your  halls  and 
towers :  the  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes  is  wearied  of  the  rolling 
hours.  In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth,  but  sickening  of  a 
vague  disease,  you  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time,  you  needs  must  play 
such  pranks  as  these.  Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  if  time  be  heavy  on 
your  hands,  are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate,  nor  any  poor  about  your 
lands?  Oh!  teach  the  orphan  boy  to  read,  or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to 
sew ;  pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart,  and  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

Tennyson. 


THE  WOOING  OF  HENEY  V. 
TT^NG^  nENB  Y.  Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair! 

"Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms, 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear. 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart? 

Katharine.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me ;  I  cannot  speak  your 
England. 

K.  lien.  O,  fair  Katharine,  if  you  will  love  me  soundly  with  your 
t'rench  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to  hear  you  confess  it  brokenly  with  your 
English  tongue.     Do  you  like  me,  Kate? 

Katli.     Pardonnez  moy,  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  — like  me. 

K.  Hen.     An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate,  and  you  are  like  an  angel. 

Kath.     Que  dit-il?  que  je  suis  semhlable  a  les  anges? 

Alice.     Ouy,  vrayment,  ainsi  dit-il. 

K.  Hen.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine ;  and  I  must  not  blush  to 
affirm  it. 

Kath.  O  bon  Dieu  I  les  langues  des  hommes  sont  pleines  des  troni' 
^eries. 

K.  lien.  "What  says  she,  fair  one?  that  the  tongues  of  men  are  full 
of  deceits? 

Alice.  Ouy  ;  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be  full  of  deceits :  dat  Is 
lie  princess. 

K.  Uen.  Tiic  princess  is  the  better  Englishwoman.  —  I'  faith,  Kate, 
my  wooing  Is  fit  for  thy  understanding.  I  am  glad  thou  canst  speak  no 
oetter  Engll»h ;  for,  if  thou  couldst,  thou  wouldst  find  me  such  a  plain 


THE   WOOING  OF   HENRY  V.  198 

king,  that  thou  woialdst  think,  I  had  sold  my  farm  to  buy  my  crown.  J 
know  no  ways  to  mince  it  In,  love,  but  directly  to  say  —  I  iove  you: 
then,  if  you  urge  me  farther  than  to  say —  Do  you  in  faith?  I  wear  out 
my  suit.  Give  me  your  answer;  i'  faith,  do;  and  so  clap  hands,  and  a 
bargain.     How  say  you,  lady? 

Kath.     Sauf  votre  honneur,  me  understand  well. 

K.  Hen.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses,  or  to  dance  for  your 
sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid  me  :  for  the  one,  I  have  neither  words  nor 
measure;  and  for  the  other,  I  have  no  strength  in  measure,  yet  a  rea- 
sonable measure  in  strength.  If  I  could  win  a  lady  at  leap-frog,  or  by 
vaulting  into  my  saddle  with  my  armor  on  my  back,  I  should  quickly 
leap  into  a  wife.  I  speak  to  thee  plain  soldier :  if  thou  canst  love  me 
for  this,  take  me ;  if  not,  to  say  to  thee  —  that  I  shall  die,  is  true ;  but 
—  for  thy  love,  by  the  Lord,  no;  yet  I  love  thee  too.  And  while  thou 
liv'  st,  dear  Kate,  take  a  fellow  of  plain  and  uncoined  constancy.  A 
straight  back  will  stoop ;  a  black  beard  will  turn  white ;  a  curl'd  pate 
will  grow  bald ;  a  fair  face  will  wither ;  a  full  eye  will  wax  hoUow  : 
but  a  good  heart,  Kate,  is  the  sun  and  moon;  or,  rather,  the  sun,  and 
not  the  moon;  for  it  shines  briglit,  and  never  changes,  but  keeps  his 
course  truly.  If  thou  would  have  such  a  one,  take  me;  and  take 
me,  take  a  soldier ;  take  a  soldier,  take  a  king :  and  what  sayest  thou 
then  to  my  love?  speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I  pray  thee. 

Kath.    Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  the  enemy  of  France? 

K.  Hen.  No;  it  is  not  possible  you  should  love  the  enemy  of 
France,  Kate  :  but,  in  loving  me,  you  should  love  the  friend  of  France ; 
for  I  love  France  so  well,  that  I  will  not  part  with  a  village  of  it;  I 
will  have  it  all  mine  :  and,  Kate,  when  France  is  mine,  and  I  am  yours, 
then  yours  is  France,  and  you  are  mine. 

Kath.     I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No,  Kate?  I  will  tell  thee  in  French,  which,  I  am  sure, 
will  hang  upon  my  tongue  like  a  new-married  wife  about  her  husband's 
neck,  hardly  to  be  shook  off.  Qiiand  j'ay  la  possession  de  France,  et 
quand  vous  avez  la  possession  de  moi,  (let  me  see,  what  then?  Saint 
Denis  be  my  speed!)  — doic  vostre  est  France,  et  vous  estes  mienne.  I«" 
is  as  easy  for  me,  Kate,  to  conquer  the  kingdom,  as  to  speak  so  much 
more  French  :  I  shall  never  move  thee  in  French,  unless  It  be  to  laugh  at 
me. 

Kath.  Sauf  votre  honneur,  le  Fran^ais  que  vous  parlez,  il  eat  meHlettr 
que  I' Anglais  lequel  je  parle. 


194  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

E.  Hen.  No,  faith,  is  't  not,  Kate :  but  thy  speaking  of  my  tongue^ 
and  I  thine,  most  truly  falsely,  must  needs  be  granted  to  be  much  at 
one.  But,  Kate,  dost  thou  understand  thus  much  English, — Canst 
thou  love  me? 

Kath.     I  cannot  tell. 

K.  Hen.  Can  any  of  your  neighbors  tell,  Kate?  I'll  ask  them. 
Come,  I  know,  thou  lovest  me :  and  at  night,  when  you  come  into  your 
closet,  you  '11  question  this  gentlewoman  about  me ;  and  I  know,  Kate, 
you  will,  to  her,  dispraise  those  parts  in  me  that  you  love  with  your 
heart :  but,  good  Kate,  mock  me  mercifully ;  the  rather,  gentle  princess, 
because  I  love  thee  cruelly.  How  answer  you,  la  plus  belle  Katharine 
du  monde,  mon  tres-chere  et  divine  deesse, 

Kath.  Your  majeste  'ave  fausse  French  enough  to  deceive  de  most 
sage  demoiselle  dat  is  en  France. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  fie  upon  my  false  French!  By  mine  honor.  In  true 
English,  I  love  thee,  Kate :  by  which  honor  I  dare  not  swear,  thou 
lovest  me;  yet  my  blood  begins  to  flatter  me  that  thou  dost,  not- 
withstandii  g  tlie  poor  and  untcmpering  effect  of  my  visage.  But, 
in  faith,  K.  tc,  I'-.e  ckler  I  wax,  the  better  I  shall  appear:  my  comfort 
is,  that  old  age  can  (\o  no  more  spoil  upon  my  face:  thou  hast  me,  if 
thou  hast  me,  at  the  wo'  st ;  and  thou  shalt  wear  me,  if  thou  wear  me, 
better  and  better;  and  therefore  tell  me,  most  fair  Katharine,  will  you 
have  me?  Put  off  your  maiden  blushes;  avouch  the  thoughts  of  your 
heart  with  the  looks  of  an  empress;  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  say  — 
Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine  :  which  word  thou  shalt  no  sooner  bless 
mine  ear  withal,  but  I  will  tell  thee  aloud  —  England  is  thine,  Ireland  is 
thine,  France  is  thine,  and  Henry  Plantagcnet  is  thine.  Come,  your 
answer  in  broken  music;  for  thy  voice  is  music,  and  thy  English 
broken :  therefore,  queen  of  all,  Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in 
broken  English  :  — Wilt  thou  have  me? 

Kath.     Dat  is,  as  it  shall  please  de  roy  man  pore. 

K  Hen.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate;  it  shall  please  him, 
Kate. 

Kath.     Den  it  shall  also  content  me. 

K.  Hen.     Upon  that  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  I  call  you  my  queen. 

Kath.  Lai/mnz,  mon  scif/nenr,  lai.tscz,  laissez :  ma  foy,  je  ne  venx 
point  que  voun  abaissiez  vostre  grandeur,  en  hai»ant  la  main  d'une  vostrc 
indigne  scrviteiire :  excuaez  moy,  je  vous  supplie,  mon  tres,  puissanl  sei^f- 
neur. 


CATO   ON  IMMORTALITY.  195 

K.  Hen.     Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Kath.  Les  dames,  et  demoiselles,  pour  estre  baiseis  (levant  leur  noces, 
il  n'est  pas  la  coutume  de  France. 

K.  Hen.     Madam  my  interpreter,  what  says  she? 

Alice.  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  ^oztr  les  ladies  of  France,  —  I  can- 
not  tell  what  is,  baiser,  en  English. 

K.  Hen.     To  kiss. 

Alice.     Your  majesty  entendre  bettre  que  may. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  not  the  fashion  for  the  maids  in  France  to  kiss  before 
they  are  married,  would  she  say? 

Alice.     Oui,  vrayment. 

K.  Hen.  O  Kate,  nice  customs  courtesy  to  great  kings.  Dear  Kate, 
you  and  I  cannot  be  confiued  within  the  weak  list  of  a  country's  fash- 
ion :  we  are  the  makers  of  manners,  Kate ;  and  the  liberty  that  follows 
our  places  stops  the  mouths  of  all  find-faults ;  as  I  will  do  yours,  for 
upholding  the  nice  fashion  of  your  country,  in  denying  me  a  kiss: 
therefore,  patiently,  and  yielding.  [Kissing  her.']  You  have  witchcraft 
in  your  lips,  Kat^  :  there  is  more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them 
than  in  the  tongues  of  the  French  council ;  and  they  should  sooner 
persuade  Harry  of  Euglaud  than  a  general  petition  of  monarchs. 

Shakespeare. 


CATO  ON  IMMORTALITY. 
"TT  must  be  so  —  Plato,  thou  reasonest  well  I 
-*-     Else,  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 
Of  falling  into  naught?    Why  slirinks  the  soul 
Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? 
'T  is  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 
'T  is  Heaven  itself  that  points  out  a  hereafter, 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 
Eternity  !  —  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass ! 
Tbe  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me : 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there 's  a  Power  above  us,  — 
And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 


196  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Througli  all  her  works,  —  He  must  delight  in  virtue; 

And  that  which  He  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when?  or  where?    This  world  was  made  for  Caesar. 

I  'm  weary  of  conjectures,  —  this  must  end  them. 

[Laying  Ms  hand  on  his  sword. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  armed.     My  death  and  life, 

My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 

This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  my  end; 

But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 

The  soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 

At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 

The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 

Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  siak  in  years ; 

But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements. 

The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 

AdMaon. 


H0EATIU8. 


"VTOW,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian,  could  the  wan  burghers  spy  the  line 
-'-^  of  blazing  villages  red  in  the  midnight  sky.  The  Fathers  of  the 
City,  they  sat  all  night  and  day,  for  every  hour  some  horseman  came 
with  tidings  of  dismay.  They  held  a  council  standing  before  the 
River-gate;  short  time  was  there  ye  well  may  guess,  for  musing  or 
debate.  Out  spoke  the  Consul  roundl}^ :  "  The  bridge  must  straight  go 
down;  for,  since  Janiculura  is  lost,  naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad,  and  the  Consul's  speech  was  low,  and 
darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall  and  darkly  at  the  foe.  •'  Their  van  will  be 
upon  us  before  the  bridge  goes  down ;  and  if  they  once  may  win  the 
bridge,  what  hope  to  save  the  town?  " 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius,  the  Captain  of  the  gate :  "  To  every 
nan  upon  this  earth  death  coraeth  soon  or  late.  And  how  can  man  die 
better  than  facing  fearful  odds,  for  the  ashes  of  his  fathers,  and  the 
temples  of  his  gods?  Hew  down  the  bridge.  Sir  Consul,  with  all  the 
Bpccd  ye  may;  I,  with  two  more  to  help  me,  will  hold  the  foe  in  bay. 
In  yon  straight  palli  a  tliousnnd  may  well  be  stopped  by  three,  now, 
who  will  stand  on  either  liand,  and  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius,  a  Ramnian  proud  was  he:  "Lo,  I 
will  stand  at  thy  right  hand,  and  keep  the  bridge  with  thee."    And  out 


HORATroS.  197 

spake  strong  Hermlnlus,  of  Titian  blood  was  he :  "  I  will  abide  oa  thy 
left  side,  aiid  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul,  "  as  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be."  And 
straight  against  that  great  array  forth  went  the  dauntless  Three.  For 
Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel  spared  neither  land  nor  gold,  nor  son  nor  wife, 
nor  limb  nor  life,  in  the  brave  daj^s  of  old.  Then  none  was  for  a  party; 
then  all  were  for  the  state ;  then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor,  and  the 
poor  man  loved  the  great ;  then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ;  then  spoils 
were  fairly  sold  :  the  Romans  were  like  brothers  in  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army,  right  glorious  to  behold,  came  flashing 
back  the  noonday  light,  rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright  of  a  broad 
sea  of  gold.  Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded  a  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
as  that  host  with  measured  tread,  and  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns 
spread,  rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head  where  stood  the  daunt- 
less Three.  The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent,  and  looked  upon  the  foes, 
and  a  great  shout  of  laughter  from  all  the  vanguard  rose.  .  .  .  But 
now  no  sound  of  laughter  was  heard  amongst  the  foes.  A  wild  and 
wrathful  clamor  from  all  the  vanguard  rose.  For  all  Etruria's  noblest 
felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see  on  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses,  in  the 
path  the  dauntless  Three. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost  to  lead  such  dire  attack ;  but  those 
behind  cried  "  Forward !  "  and  those  before  cried  "  Back !  "  And  back- 
ward now  and  forward  wavers  the  deep  array ;  and  on  the  tossing  sea 
of  steel,  to  and  fro  the  standards  reel;  and  the  victorious  trumpet- 
peal  dies  fitfully  away. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever  have  manfully  been  plied,  and  now  the 
bridge  hangs  tottering  above  the  boiling  tide.  "  Come  back,  come  back, 
Horatius!"  loud  cried  the  fathers  all.  "Back,  Lartius!  back.  Her. 
minius!  back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !  "  Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius;  Her- 
minius  darted  back ;  and  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet  they  felt  the 
timbers  crack.  But  when  they  turned  their  faces,  and  on  the  farther 
shore,  saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone,  they  would  have  crossed  once 
more.  But,  with  a  crash  like  thunder  fell  every  loosened  beam,  and, 
like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck  lay  right  athwart  the  stream :  and  a  long 
shout  of  triumph  rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome,  as  to  the  highest  turret- 
tops  was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius,  but  constant  still  in  mind ;  thrice  thirty 
thousand  foes  before,  and  the  broad  flood  behind.  "  Down  with  himl" 
cried  false  Scxtus,  with  a  smile  on  his  pale  face;  "Now  yield  thee," 
cried  Lars  Porsena,  "  now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 


198  CLASSIC  SELECnO:NS. 

Eoand  turned  he.  as  not  deigning  those  craven  ranks  to  see ;  naught 
spake  lie  to  Lars  Porsena ;  to  Sestus  naught  spake  he ;  but  he  saw  on 
Palatinus  the  -white  porch  of  his  home ;  and  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 
that  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome :  "  O  Tiber !  Father  Tiber !  to  whom 
the  Romans  praj%  a  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms,  take  thou  in  charge 
this  day ! "  So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed  the  good  sword  by  his 
side,  aud,  with  his  harness  on  his  back,  plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow  was  heard  from  either  bank,  but  friends 
and  foes  in  dumb  surprise,  with  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes,  stood 
gazing  where  he  sank ;  aud  when  above  tlie  surges  they  saw  his  crest 
appear,  all  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry,  and  even  the  ranks  of 
Tuscany  could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current,  swollen  high  by  months  of  rain ;  and 
fast  his  blood  was  flowing,  and  he  was  sore  in  pain  :  and  heavy  with  his 
armor,  and  spent  with  changing  blows,  and  oft  they  thought  him  sink- 
ing, and  still  again  he  rose.  Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer,  in  such  an 
evil  case,  struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood  safe  to  the  landing- 
place  :  but  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely  by  the  brave  heart  within, 
and  our  good  father  Tiber  bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"  Curse  on  him!  "  quoth  false  Sextus,  "  will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day  we  should  have  sacked  the  town !  " 
"Heaven  help  him!"  quoth  Lars  Porsena,  "and  bring  him  safe  to 
shore,  for  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms  was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ;  now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ;  now 
round  hira  throng  the  fathers  to  press  his  gory  hands;  and  now  with 
shouts  and  clapping,  and  noise  of  weeping  loud,  he  enters  through  the 
Kiver-gate,  borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

Abridged.  Macaulai/. 


THE  SPRING  JOURNEY. 


/'~\    GT?EEN  was  the  corn  as  I  rode  on  my  way, 

^-^     And  bright  were  the  dews  on  the  blossoms  of  May, 

And  dark  was  the  sycamore's  shade  to  behold. 

And  the  oak's  tender  leaf  was  of  emerald  aud  gold. 

The  thrush  from  liis  holly,  the  lark  from  his  cloud, 
Tlieir  choru.s  of  rapture  sang  jovial  and  loud  : 
From  the  soft  vernal  sky  to  the  soft  grassy  ground, 
There  was  beauty  above  me,  beneath,  and  around. 


JULIET  DRINKING  THE   POTION.  199 

The  mild  southern  breeze  brou;;ht  a  shower  from  the  hill, 

And  yet,  though  it  left  me  all  dripping  and  chill, 

I  felt  a  new  pleasure  as  onward  I  sped, 

To  gaze  where  the  rainbow  gleamed  broad  overhead. 

0  such  be  Life's  journey,  and  such  be  our  skill, 

To  lose  in  its  blessings  the  sense  of  its  ill ; 

Tlirough  sunshine  and  shower  may  our  progress  be  even, 

And  our  tears  add  a  charm  to  the  prospect  of  Heaven  I 

Uebet 


JULIET  DRINKING  THE  POTION. 

FAREAVELL !  God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again. 
I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life : 
I'll  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me :  — 
Nurse  !  —  What  should  she  do  here? 
My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. 
Come  vial. 

What,  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all? 
Must  I  of  force  be  married  to  the  county?  — 
No,  no  ;  this  shall  forbid  it :  lie  thiu  there. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead ; 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonor'd. 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo? 
I  fear  it  is ;  and  yet,  mcthinks,  it  sliould  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man  : 
I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought  — 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  will  awake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me?  there 's  a  fearful  point  I 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault. 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes  In, 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle. 
Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 


200  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  pack'd; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 
Lies  festering  in  his  shroud ;  where,  as  they  say, 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort ; 
Alack,  alack !  is  it  not  like,  that  I, 
So  early  waking;  what  with  loathsome  smells. 
And  shrieks  like  mandrakes'  torn  out  of  the  earth, 
That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad,  — 
O !  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone. 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains? 
O,  look !  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Eomeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point.     Stay,  Tybalt,  stay ! 
Borneo,  I  come  1  this  do  I  drink  to  thee. 


Shakespeare, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GAMP. 
"  f~^  IVE  us  a  song!  "  the  soldiers  cried, 

^-^     The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff. 

Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under; 

And  the  tawuy  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said : 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side. 

Below  tlie  smoking  cannon ; 
Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  b-vnks  of  Shannon. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   REPRIEVE.  201 

They  sang  of  love  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory; 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "  Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong,— 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 

But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 
Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 

Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 
With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell. 

And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  I 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 

For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory ; 
And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 

WIio  sang  of  "  Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers !  still  in  honored  rest 

Your  truth  and  valor  wearing : 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 

The  loving  are  the  daring. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


THE   SOLDIEE'S    REPRIEVE. 


»*T   THOUGHT,  Mr.  Allen,  when  I  gave  my  Bennie  to  hia 

-*-   country,  that  not  a  father  in  all  this  broad  land  made  so 

precious  a  gift,  —  no,  not  one.     The  dear  boy  only  slept  a  min- 

ate  —  just  one  little  minute  —  at  his  post :  I  know  that  was  all. 


202  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

for  Bennie  never  dozed  over  a  duty.  How  prompt  and  trust- 
worthy  he  was  !  I  know  he  fell  asleep  only  one  little  second ; 
—  he  was  so  young,  and  not  strong,  that  boy  of  mine !  Why, 
he  was  as  tall  as  I  and  only  eighteen  !  and  now  they  shoot  him 
because  he  was  found  asleep  when  doing  sentinel  duty  !  Twenty- 
four  hours,  the  telegram  said,  —  only  twenty-four  hours.  "Where 
is  Bennie  now?" 

"  We  will  hope  with  his  Heavenly  Father,"  said  Mr.  Allen. 

*'  Yes,  yes,  let  us  hope  :  God  is  very  merciful. 

"  '  I  should  be  ashamed,  father,'  Bennie  said,  'when  I  was  a 
man,  to  think  I  never  used  this  great  right  arm,'  —  and  he  lield 
it  out  so  proudly  before  me,  — '  for  my  country,  when  it  needed 
it.     Palsy  it  ratlier  than  keep  it  at  the  plough.' 

"  '  Go,  then,  my  boy  ! '  I  said,  '  and  God  keep  you  ! '  God 
has  kept  him,  I  think,  Mr.  Allen  "  ;  and  the  farmer  repeated 
those  last  words  slowly,  as  if,  in  spite  of  his  reason,  his  heart 
doubted  them. 

"  Like  the  apple  of  his  eye,  Mr.  Owen,  doubt  it  not !  " 

Blossom  sat  near  them,  listening  with  blancHed  cheeks.  She 
had  not  shed  a  tear.  Her  anxiety  had  been  so  concealed  that 
no  one  had  noticed  it.  She  had  occupied  herself  mechanically 
in  the  household  cares.  Now  she  answered  a  gentle  tap  at  the 
kitchen  door,  opening  it  to  receive  from  a  neighbor's  hand  a 
letter.     "  It  is  from  him,"  was  all  she  said. 

It  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead !  Mr.  Owen  took  the 
letter,  but  could  not  break  the  envelope  on  account  of  his 
trembling  fingers,  and  held  it  toward  Mr.  Allen,  with  the  help- 
lessness of  a  child.  The  minister  opened  it  and  read  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  Dear  Futher:  —  When  this  reaches  you,  I  shall  be  in  eter- 
nity. At  first,  it  seemed  awful  to  me  ;  but  I  have  thought 
about  it  so  iinich  uow  that  it  lias  no  terror.  They  say  that  they 
will  not  bind  mo,  nor  l)lin(l  me  ;  bnt  that  I  may  meet  my  death 
like  a  man.     I  thought,  father,  that  it  might  have  been  on  the 


THE   SOLDIER'S   REPRIEVE.  208 

battle-field,  for  my  country,  and  that,  when  I  fell,  it  would  be 
fighting  gloriously ;  but  to  be  shot  down  like  a  dog  for  nearly 
betraying  it,  —  to  die  for  noglect  of  duty  !  O  fatlier,  I  wonder 
the  very  thought  does  not  kill  me  !  But  I  sliall  not  disgrace 
you.  I  am  going  to  write  you  all  about  it ;  and  when  I  am 
gone,  you  ma}'  tell  my  comrades  ;  I  cannot  now. 

"You  kn  w  I  promised  Jemmie  Carr's  mother  I  would  look 
after  her  boy  ;  and,  when  he  fell  sick,  I  did  all  I  could  for  him. 
He  was  not  strong  when  he  was  ordered  back  into  the  ranks, 
and  the  day  before  that  night,  I  carried  all  his  baggage,  besides 
my  own,  on  our  march.  Toward  night  we  went  in  on  double- 
quick,  and  the  baggage  began  to  feel  very  heavy.  Everybody 
was  tired  ;  and  as  for  Jemmie,  if  I  had  not  lent  him  an  arm 
now  and  then,  he  would  have  dropped  by  the  way. 

"  I  was  all  tired  out  when  we  came  into  camp  ;  and  then  it 
was  Jemmie's  turn  to  be  sentry,  and  I  would  take  his  place ; 
but  I  was  too  tired,  father.  I  could  not  have  kept  awake  if  a 
gun  had  been  pointed  at  my  head ;  but  I  did  not  know  it  until 
—  well,  until  it  was  too  late." 

"God  be  thanked  !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Owen,  reverently.  "  I 
knew  Bennie  was  not  the  boy  to  sleep  carelessly." 

"They  tell  me  to-day  that  I  have  a  short  reprieve  —  given  to 
me  by  circumstances  —  '  time  to  write  to  you,'  our  good  colonel 
says.  Forgive  him,  father,  he  onl}'  does  his  duty ;  he  would 
gladly  save  me  if  he  could  ;  and  do  not  lay  my  death  up  against 
Jemmie.  The  poor  boy  is  broken-hearted,  and  does  nothing  but 
beg  and  enti'eat  them  to  let  him  die  in  my  stead. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  mother  and  Blossom.  Comfort 
them,  father !  Tell  them  I  die  as  a  brave  boy  should,  and  that, 
when  the  war  is  over,  they  will  not  be  ashamed  of  me,  as  they 
must  be  now.  God  help  me  ;  it  is  very  hard  to  bear !  Good 
by,  father ! 

"  To-night,  in  the  earl}'  twilight,  I  shall  see  the  cows  all  com- 
ing home  from  pasture,  and  precious  little  Blossom  standing  on 


iOl  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

the  back  stoop,  waiting  for  me,  — but  I  shall  never,  never  cornel 
God  bless  you  all !     Forgive  your  poor  Bennie." 

Late  that  night  the  door  of  the  "  back  stoop"  opened  softly, 
and  a  little  figure  glided  out  and  down  the  foot-path  to  the  road 
that  led  by  the  mill.  She  seemed  rather  flying  than  walking, 
turning  her  head  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  looking 
only  now  and  then  to  Heaven,  and  folding  her  hands,  as  if  in 
prayer. 

Two  hours  later  the  same  young  girl  stood  at  Mill  Depot, 
watching  the  coming  of  the  night  train ;  and  the  conductor,  as 
he  reached  down  to  lift  her  into  the  car,  wondered  at  the  tear- 
stained  face  that  was  upturned  toward  the  dim  lantern  he  held 
in  his  hand.  A  few  questions  and  ready  answers  told  him  all ; 
and  no  father  could  have  cared  more  tenderly  for  his  only  child 
than  he  did  for  our  little  Blossom. 

She  was  on  her  way  to  Washington  to  ask  President  Lincoln 
for  her  brother's  life.  She  had  stolen  away,  leaving  only  a  note 
to  tell  her  father  where  and  why  she  had  gone.  She  had  taken 
Bennie's  letter  with  her.  No  good,  kind  heart,  like  the  Presi- 
dent's, could  refuse  to  be  melted  by  it.  The  next  morning  Ihey 
reached  New  York,  and  the  conductor  hurried  her  on  to  Wash- 
ington. Every  minute,  now,  might  be  the  means  of  saving  her 
brother's  life.  And  so,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  Blossom 
reached  the  capital,  and  hastened  immediately  to  the  White 
House. 

The  President  had  but  just  seated  himself  at  his  morning's 
task  of  looking  over  and  signing  important  papers,  when,  with- 
out one  word  of  announcement,  the  door  softlj^  opened,  and 
Blossom,  with  downcast  eyes  and  folded  hands,  stood  before 
him. 

"  Well,  my  child,"  he  said,  in  his  pleasant,  cheerful  tones, 
"  what  do  you  want  so  bright  and  early  in  the  morning?" 

"  Bennie's  life,  please,  sir,"  faltered  Blossom. 

"Bennie?     Who  is  Bennie?" 


THE   SOLDIER'S   REPRIEVE.  105 

"  My  brother,  sir.  They  are  going  to  shoot  him  for  sleeping 
at  his  post." 

"Oh,  yes,"  and  Mr.  Lincoln  ran  his  eye  over  the  papers  before 
him.  "  I  remember  !  It  was  a  fatal  sleep.  You  see,  child,  it 
Vv^as  at  a  time  of  special  danger.  Thousands  of  lives  might 
have  been  lost  through  his  culpable  negligence." 

"  So  my  father  said,"  replied  Blossom,  gravely  ;  "  but  poor 
Bennie  was  so  tired,  sir,  and  Jemraie  so  weak.  He  did  the 
work  of  two,  sir,  and  it  was  Jemmie's  night,  not  his  ;  but  Jem- 
mie  was  too  tired,  and  Bennie  never  thought  about  himself  — 
that  he  was  tired  too." 

"  What  is  this  you  sa}-,  child?  Come  here;  I  do  not  under- 
stand" ;  and  the  kind  man  caught  eagerly-,  as  ever,  at  something 
to  justify  the  offence. 

Blossom  went  to  him  :  he  put  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  shoul- 
der, and  turned  up  the  pale,  anxious  face  toward  his.  How  tall 
he  seemed,  and  he  was  President  of  the  United  States  too.  A 
dim  thought  of  this  kind  passed  through  Blossom's  mind  ;  but 
she  told  her  simple  and  straightforward  story,  and  handed  Mr. 
Lincoln  Beunie's  letter  to  read. 

He  read  it  carefully  ;  then,  taking  up  his  pen,  wrote  a  few 
hasty  lines,  and  rang  his  bell.  Blossom  heard  this  order  given  : 
*'  Send  this  dispatch  at  once." 

The  President  then  tui'ned  to  the  girl  and  said  :  "  Go  home, 
my  child,  and  tell  that  father  of  yours,  who  could  approve  his 
country's  sentence,  even  when  it  took  the  life  of  a  child  like 
that,  that  Abraham  Lincoln  thinks  the  life  far  too  precious  to 
be  lost.  Go  back,  or —  wait  until  to-morrow ;  Bennie  will 
need  a  change  after  he  has  so  bravely  faced  death  ;  he  shall  go 
with  you." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Blossom ;  and  who  shall  doubt 
that  God  heard  and  registered  the  request? 

Two  days  after  this  interview,  the  young  soldier  came  to  the 
White  House  with  his  little  sister.     He  was  called  into   tht 


206  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

President's  private  room,  and  a  strap  fastened  upon  the  shoulder. 
Mr.  Lincoln  then  said:  "The  soldier  that  could  carry  a  sick 
comrade's  baggage,  and  die  for  the  act  without  complaining, 
deserves  well  of  his  country." 

Then  Bennie  and  Blossom  took  their  way  to  their  Green 
Mountain  home.  A  crowd  gathered  at  the  Mill  Depot  to  wel- 
come them  back ;  and  as  farmer  Owen's  hand  grasped  that  of 
his  boy,  tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  was  heard  to  say 
fervently,  "  The  Lord  be  praised." 

Mrs.  B.  D.  C.  BobbinM. 


ALPINE  SCENERY. 


A    BOVE  me  are  the  Alps,  the  glorious  Alps  I 
-^^^   The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche,  —  the  thunderbolt  of  snow! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls, 
Gathers  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man  below. 

Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake 
With  the  wide  world  I  've  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

It  Is  the  liush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capp'd  hciglits  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and,  drawing  near, 


ALPINE   SCENERY.  207 

There  breathes  a  living  frngnince  frorn  the  shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  witli  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  maltes 
Uis  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  bralces 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill; 
But  that  is  fancy ;  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  distil, 
"Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars !  which  are  the  poetry  of  Heaven ! 
If,  in  your  bright  leaves,  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  em;  ires,  —  't  is  to  be  forgiven, 
That,  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  raystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star 

The  sky  is  changed !  —  and  such  a  change !     O  Night, 
And  Storm,  and  Darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !    Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !  not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue ; 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud. 

And  this  is  in  the  night :  —  Most  glorious  Night, 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber;  let  me  be 

A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,  — 

A  portion  of  tlie  tempest  and  of  thee  I 

How  the  lit  lake  shines,  —  a  phosphoric  sea,  — 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  I 


CLASSIC   SELECTIUNS. 

And  now  again 't  is  black ;  and  now  the  glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mouutaiu  mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  I  yel 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  Avatchf ul :  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knell 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests !  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  liigh  nest? 

The  mom  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom. 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  Earth  contain'd  no  tomb,  — 
And  glowing  into  day  :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence ;  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman,  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
llach  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly. 


FOE  A'  THAT,  AND  A'  THAT. 

TS  there,  for  honest  poverty, 
^    That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that  I 
For  a'  that,  and  a*  that ; 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp; 
The  man  's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 
Wear  hodden-gray,  and  a'  that ; 

Gle  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wla6, 
A  man 's  a  man,  for  a'  that. 


Syron, 


MURDER  AS   A  FINE  ART.  209 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that .. 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poofri 

Is  King  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkle,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He 's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man 's  aboon  liis  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that  I 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that ; 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that; 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

£vrn». 


MURDEE  AS  A  rilTE  ART. 

GENTLEMEN  :  I  Lave  had  the  honor  to  be  appointed  by 
your  committee  to  the  trying  task  of  reading  the  Williams' 
Lecture  on  Murder,  considered  as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts  ;  a  task 
which  might  be  easy  enough  three  or  four  centuries  ago,  when 
the  art  was  little  understood,  and  few  great  models  had  been 
exhibited  ;  but  in  this  age,  when  masterpieces  of  excellence  hav« 


210  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

been  execnted  by  professional  men,  it  must  be  evident  that,  iu 
the  stjle  of  criticism  applied  to  them,  the  public  will  look  for 
something  of  a  corresponding  improvt  ment.  People  begin  to 
see  that  something  more  goes  to  the  composition  of  a  fiuv 
murder  than  two  blockheads  to  kill  and  be  killed, —  a  knife,  — a 
purse, —  and  a  dark  lane.  Design,  Gentlemen,  grouping,  light 
and  shade,  poetry,  sentiment,  are  now  deemed  indispensable  tc 
attempts  of  this  nature. 

Before  I  begin,  let  me  say  a  word  or  two  to  certain  prigs  who 
affect  to  speak  of  our  society  as  if  it  were  in  some  degree  im- 
moral in  its  teudenc}'.  Immoral?  Jupiter  protect  me,  Gen- 
tlemen, what  is  it  that  people  mean  ?  I  am  for  morality,  and 
always  shall  be,  and  for  virtue,  and  all  that;  and  I  do  affirm, 
and  always  shall  (let  what  will  come  of  it),  tl.at  muider  is  an 
improper  line  of  conduct,  highly  improper  ;  and  I  do  not  stick 
to  assert  that  any  man  who  deals  in  murder  must  have  very 
incorrect  ways  of  thinking,  and  truly  inaccurate  principles  ;  and 
so  far  from  aiding  and  abetting  him  by  pointing  out  his  victim's 
hiding-place,  as  a  great  moralist  of  Germany  declared  it  to  be 
every  good  man's  duty  to  do,  I  would  subscribe  one  shilling  and 
sixpence  to  have  him  apprehended  ;  which  is  more  by  cightecn- 
pence  than  the  most  eminent  moralists  have  hitherto  subscribed 
for  tliat  purpose.  But  what  tlicn?  Everytliing  in  this  world 
has  two  handles.  Murder,  for  instance,  may  be  laid  hold  of  b^ 
its  moral  handle  (as  it  generally  is  in  the  pulpit,  and  at  the  Old 
Bailey)  ;  and  tliat^  I  confess,  is  its  weak  side  ;  or  it  may  also  be 
treated  cestheticaUu,  as  the  Germans  call  it,  —  that  is,  in  rela- 
tion to  good  taste.  .  .  . 

In  the  assassinations  of  princes  and  statesmen,  there  is 
nothing  to  excite  our  wonder  :  important  changes  often  depend 
on  their  deaths  ;  and,  from  the  eminence  on  which  they  stand, 
they  are  peculiarly  exposed  to  the  aim  of  every  artist  who  hap- 
pens to  be  posst'ssod  by  the  craving  for  scenical  effect.  But 
there  is  another  class  of  assassinations,  which  has  prevailed  from 


MURDER  AS  A  FINE  ART.  2H 

an  early  period  of  the  seventeenth  century,  that  really  does  sur- 
prise me  ;  I  mean  the  assassination  of  philosophers.  For,  Gen- 
tlemen, it  is  a  fact,  that  every  philosopher  of  eminence  for  the 
two  last  centuries  has  either  been  murdered,  or,  at  the  least,  been 
very  near  it ;  insomuch,  that  if  a  man  calls  himself  a  philosopher, 
and  never  had  his  life  attempted,  rest  assured  there  is  nothing 
in  him  ;  and  against  Locke's  philosophy  in  particular,  I  think  it 
an  unanswerable  objection  (if  we  needed  any)  that,  although 
he  carried  his  throat  about  with  him  in  this  world  for  seventy- 
two  years,  no  man  ever  condescended  to  cut  it.   .  .  . 

Hobbes  —  but  why,  or  on  what  principle,  I  never  could  under- 
stand —  was  not  murdered.  This  was  a  capital  oversight  of  the 
professional  men  in  the  seventeenth  century  ;  because  in  every 
light  he  was  a  fine  subject  for  murder,  except,  indeed,  that  he 
was  lean  and  skinny  ;  for  I  can  prove  that  he  had  money,  and 
(what  is  very  funny)  he  had  no  right  to  make  the  least  resist- 
ance ;  since,  according  to  himself,  irresistible  power  creates  the 
very  highest  species  of  right ;  so  that  it  is  rebellion  of  the 
blackest  dye  to  refuse  to  be  murdered,  when  a  competent  force 
appears,  to  murder  j'ou.  However,  Gentlemen,  though  he  was 
not  murdered,  I  am  happy  to  assure  you  that  (by  his  own 
account)  he  was  three  times  very  near  being  murdered,  which 
is  consolatory.  .  .  . 

It  is  now  time  that  I  should  say  a  few  words  about  the  prin- 
ciples of  murder,  not  with  a  view  to  regulate  your  practice,  but 
your  judgment :  as  to  old  women,  and  the  mob  of  newspaper- 
readers,  they  are  pleased  with  anything,  provided  it  is  bloody 
enough.  But  the  mind  of  sensibility  requires  something  more. 
First,  then,  let  us  speak  of  the  kind  of  person  who  is  adapted 
to  the  purpose  of  the  murderer ;  secoixdly^  of  the  place  where ; 
thirdly^  of  the  time  when,  and  other  little  circumstances. 

As  to  the  person,  I  suppose  it  is  evident  that  he  ought  to  be 
a  good  man ;  because,  if  he  were  not,  he  might  himself,  by 
possibility,  be  contemplating  murder  at  the  very  time  ;  and  such 


212  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

"diamond-cut-diamond"  tussles,  though  pleasant  enough  where 
nothing  better  is  stirring,  are  really  not  what  a  critic  can  allow 
himself  to  call  murders.  The  subject  chosen  ought  to  be  in 
good  health :  for  it  is  absolutely  barbarous  to  murder  a  sick 
person,  who  is  usually  quite  unable  to  bear  it.  A  philosophic 
friend,  well  known  for  his  philanthropy  and  general  benignity, 
suggests  that  the  subject  chosen  ought  also  to  have  a  family  of 
young  children  wholly  dependent  on  his  exertions,  by  way  of 
deepening  the  pathos.  And,  undoubtedly,  this  is  a  judicious 
caution.  Yet  I  would  not  insist  too  keenly  on  such  a  condi- 
tion. Severe  good  taste  unquestionably  suggests  it ;  but  still, 
where  the  man  was  otherwise  unobjectionable  in  point  of  morals 
and  health,  I  would  not  look  with  too  curious  a  jealousy  to  a 
restriction,  which  might  have  the  effect  of  narrowing  the  artist's 
sphere.  .   .  . 

So  much  for  the  person.  As  to  the  time,  the  place,  and  the 
tools,  I  have  many  things  to  say,  which  at  present  I  have  no 
room  for.  The  good  sense  of  the  practitioner  has  usually 
directed  him  to  night  and  privacy.  Yet  there  have  not  been 
wanting  cases  where  this  rule  was  departed  from  with  excellent 
effect.  .  .  . 

As  to  murder,  I  never  committed  one  in  my  life.  It's  a  well- 
known  thing  amongst  all  my  friends.  I  can  get  a  paper  to  cer- 
tify as  much,  signed  by  lots  of  people.  Indeed,  if  you  come  to 
that,  I  doubt  whether  many  people  could  produce  as  strong  a 
certificate.  Mine  would  be  as  big  as  a  breakfast  tablecloth. 
"But,"  say  you,  "if  no  murderer,  you  may  have  encouraged, 
or  even  have  bespoken  a  murder."  No,  upon  my  honor,  no. 
And  that  was  the  very  point  I  wished  to  argue  for  your  satisfac- 
tion. Tlie  truth  is,  I  am  a  very  particular  man  in  everything 
relating  to  murder ;  and  perhaps  I  carry  my  delicacy  too  far. 

Genius  may  do  niucli,  but  long  study  of  the  art  must  always 
entitle  a  man  to  offer  advice.  So  far  I  will  go,  — general  prin- 
ciples I  will  suggest.     But  as  to  any  particular  case,  once  for 


RICHELIEU'S   APPEAL.  218 

all,  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Never  tell  me  of  any 
special  work  of  art  you  are  meditating,  — I  set  my  face  against 
it  in  toto.  For,  if  once  a  man  indulges  himself  in  murder,  very 
soon  he  comes  to  think  little  of  robbing  ;  and  from  robbing  he 
comes  next  to  drinking  and  Sabbath-breaking,  and  from  that  to 
incivility  and  procrastination.  Once  begin  upon  this  downward 
path,  you  never  know  where  you  are  to  stop.  Many  a  man  has 
dated  his  ruin  from  some  murder  or  other  that  perhaps  he  thought 
little  of  at  the  time. 

Da  Quincey. 


EIOHELIEU'S  APPEAL. 


MY  liege,  your  anger  can  recall  your  trust, 
Annul  my  office,  spoil  mc  of  iny  lands, 
Rifle  ray  coffers ;  but  my  name,  my  deeds, 
Are  royal  in  a  land  beyond  your  sceptre. 
Pass  sentence  on  me,  if  you  will ;  —  from  kings 
Lo,  I  appeal  to  Time !    Be  just,  my  liege. 
I  found  your  kingdom  rent  with  heresies, 
And  bristling  with  rebellion ;  —  lawless  nobles 
And  breadless  serfs;  England  fomenting  discord; 
Austria,  her  clutch  on  your  dominion ;  Spain 
Forging  the  prodigal  gold  of  either  Ind 
To  armed  thunderbolts.     The  Arts  lay  dead ; 
Trade  rotted  in  your  marts ;  your  armies  mutinous, 
Your  treasury  bankrupt.     Would  you  now  revoke 
Your  trust,  so  be  it !  and  I  leave  you,  sole, 
Supremest  Monarch  of  the  mightiest  realm, 
From  Ganges  to  the  icebergs.     Look  without,  — 
No  foe  not  humbled !    Look  within,  —  the  Arts 
Quit,  for  our  schools,  their  old  Hesperides, 
The  golden  Italy  I  while  throughout  the  veins 
Of  your  vast  empire  flows  in  strengthening  tides 
Trade,  the  calm  health  of  nations !     Sii'e,  I  know 
That  men  have  called  me  ci-uel ;  — 
I  am  not;  —  I  am  just  I    I  found  France  rent  asunder, 
The  rich  men  despots,  and  the  poor  banditti ; 
Sloth  in  the  mart,  and  schism  within  the  t«mple ; 


214  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Brawls  festering  to  rebellion ;  and  weak  laws 

Kotting  away  with  rust  in  antique  sheaths. 

1  Kave  re-created  France ;  and,  from  the  ashes 

Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepit  carcass, 

Civilization,  on  her  luminous  wings. 

Soars,  phoenix-lilce,  to  Jove !    What  was  my  art? 

Genius,  some  say ;  —  some.  Fortune ;  Witchcraft,  some. 

Not  so ;  —  my  art  was  Justice. 


Bulwer 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 


"YTTHITHER,  'midst  falling  dew, 

^  '       While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day. 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursus 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  patliless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  Illimitable  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  vrings  have  fanned. 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  night  .'s  near. 

And  soon  that  toll  shall  end ; 
Soon  slialt  thou  find  a  suniincr  home,  and  rest. 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend. 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nesL 


HENRY   IV.   AND   HOTSPUR.  215 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


BUQLE  SONG. 

THE  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Ohark.  0  hear!  how  thin  and  clear. 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going; 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  clitf  and  scar, 

Tlie  horns  of  Elflaiid  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  In  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

HENEY  IV.  A^^)  H0T3PUB. 
'jy^ING.      My  blood  hath  been  too  cold  and  temperate, 
-/A       Unapt  to  stir  at  these  indignities. 

Worcester.    Our  House,  my  sovereign  liege,  little  deserves 
The  scourge  of  greatness  to  be  used  on  it; 
And  that  same  greatness  too  which  our  own  hands 
Have  holp  to  make  so  portly. 


J16  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Korthumberland.  My  good  lord  — 

King.     Worcester,  get  thee  gone ;  for  I  do  see 
Danger  and  disobedience  in  thine  eye  : 
0,  sir,  your  presence  is  too  bold  and  peremptory, 
And  majesty  might  never  yet  endure 
The  moody  frontier  of  a  servant  brow. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us  :  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel,  we  shall  send  for  you.     [^Exit  "Worces. 
[To  North.]    You  were  about  to  speak. 

North.  Yea,  my  good  lord 

Those  prisoners  in  your  Highness'  name  demanded, 
Which  Harry  Percy  here  at  Holmedon  took. 
Were,  as  he  says,  not  with  such  strength  denied 
As  is  deliver'd  to  your  Majesty : 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision. 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son. 

Hotspur.     My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 
But,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done. 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil. 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin  new  reap'd 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home : 
He  was  pcrfum&d  like  a  milliner; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took 't  away  again ; 
Who  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there. 
Took  it  in  snuff:  and  still  he  smiled  and  talk'd; 
And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 
He  ciill'd  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  qucslion'd  me;  among  tlie  rest,  demanded 
My  prisojicrs  in  yor.r  Majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting  with  my  wounds  being  cold. 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience 
To  be  8o  pester'd  with  a  popinjay, 


HENRY  IV.    AND   HOTSPUR.  217 

Answer'd  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what,  — 

He  should,  or  he  should  not :  for 't  made  me  mad 

To  see  hira  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 

And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman 

Of  guns  and  drums  and  wounds,  —  God  save  the  mark !  — 

And  telling  me  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  Earth 

"Was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bruise ; 

And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 

This  villanous  salt-petre  should  be  digg'd 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 

Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 

So  cowardly ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns, 

He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 

I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 

And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 

Come  current  for  an  accusation 

Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  Majesty. 

Blunt.     The  circumstance  consider'd,  good  my  lord, 
"Whatever  Harry  Percy  then  had  said 
To  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place, 
At  such  a  time,  with  all  the  rest  re-told. 
May  reasonably  die,  and  never  rise 
To  do  him  wrong,  or  any  way  impeach 
"What  then  he  said,  so  he  unsay  it  now. 

King.    "Why,  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners, 
But  with  proviso  and  exception, 
That  we  at  our  own  charge  shall  ransom  straight 
His  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Mortimer; 
"Who,  on  my  soul,  hath  wilfully  betray'd 
The  lives  of  those  that  he  did  lead  to  fight. 
Shall  we  buy  treason?  and  indent  with  fears 
"When  they  have  lost  and  forfeited  themselves? 
No,  on  the  barren  mountains  let  him  starve; 
For  I  shall  never  hold  that  man  my  friend 
"Whose  ton^e  shall  ask  me  for  one  penny  cost 
To  ransom  home  revolted  Mortimer. 

Hot.     Revolted  Mortimer  1 
He  never  did  fall  off,  my  sovereign  liege, 
But  by  the  chance  of  war :  to  prove  that  true 


218  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Needs  no  more  but  one  tongne  for  all  those  wounds, 

Those  mouthed  wounds,  which  valiantly  he  took, 

"When  on  the  gentle  Severn's  sedgy  bank, 

J.n  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand. 

He  did  confound  tlie  best  part  of  an  hour 

In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower. 

Three  times  they  breathed,  and  three  times  did  they  drink, 

Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood ; 

Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks, 

Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds, 

And  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank 

Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 

Never  did  base  and  rotten  policy 

Color  her  working  with  such  deadly  wounds; 

Nor  never  r.ould  the  noble  Mortimer 

Receive  so  many,  and  all  willingly  .• 

Then  let  him  not  be  slander'd  with  revolt. 

King.     Thou  dost  belie  him,  Percy,  thou  dost  belie  him; 
He  never  did  encounter  with  Glendower: 
I  tell  thee, 

He  durst  as  well  have  met  the  Devil  alone 
As  Owen  Glendower  for  an  enemy. 
Art  not  ashamed?    But,  sirrah,  from  henceforth 
Let  me  not  hear  j'ou  speak  of  Mortimer: 
Send  me  your  prisoners  with  the  speediest  means, 
Or  you  shall  hear  In  such  a  kind  from  me 
As  will  displease  you.  —  My  Lord  Northumberland, 
We  license  your  departure  with  your  son. — 
Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you  11  heax  of  it. 


Skaisspeare. 


LOED  ULLIN'S  DAUQHTEE. 

A  CHIEFTAIN  to  the  Highlands  bound  cries,  "Boatman,  do  not 
-^  -*-  tarry!  and  I  11  give  thee  a  silver  pound  to  row  us  o'er  the 
forry !" 

"  Now  who  be  yc,  would  cross  Lochgyle  this  dark  and  stormy 
water?" 

"  0,  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  Isle,  and  this,  Lord  Ullln's  daughter. 
Anl  fast  before  her  father's  men  three  days  we  've  fled  together,  for 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  219 

Bhould  he  find  us  in  the  glen,  my  blood  would  stain  the  heather.  Hl3 
horscmeu  hard  behind  us  ride;  should  they  our  steps  discover,  then 
who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride  when  they  have  slain  her  lover?  " 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight,  "  I  '11  go,  my  chief,  I  'ra  ready. 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright,  i)ut  for  your  winsome  lady.  And  by 
my  word!  the  bonny  bird  in  danger  shall  not  tarry;  so  though  the 
waves  are  raging  white  I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace,  the  water-wraith  was  shrieking-, 
and  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face  grew  dark  as  they  were  speak- 
ing. But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind  and  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men,  their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

•*  0  haste  thee,  haste ! "  the  lady  cries,  "  though  tempests  round  us 
gather;  I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies,  but  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stoi-my  land,  a  stormy  sea  before  her,  — when, 
oh!  too  strong  for  human  hand,  the  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her.  And 
still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar  of  waters  fast  prevailing :  Lord  Ullin 
reach'd  that  fatal  shore,  —  his  wrath  was  clianged  to  wailing.  For, 
sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade  his  child  he  did  discover: 
one  lovely  hand  she  stretchd  for  aid,  and  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!  come  back!"  he  cried  in  grief,  "  across  this  stormy 
water :  and  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  cliief ,  my  daughter !  —  0  my 
daughter ! " 

'T  was  vain  :  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore,  return  or  aid  prevent 
lug :  the  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child,  and  he  was  left  lamenting. 

T.  CampbelL 


EABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


GROW  old  along  with  me !  the  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life,  for  wliich  the  first  was  made : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand  who  saith,  "  A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God  :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid!  ** 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers,  youth  sighed,  "  Which  rose  make  ours, 

Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall !  " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars,  it  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them  all  I " 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears,  annulling  youth's  brief  years. 
Do  I  remonstrate ;  folly  wide  the  mark  I 


J20  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt  low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed,  were  man  but  formed  to  feed 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast: 
Such  feasting  ended,  then  as  sure  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt  the  maw-crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied  to  That  which  doth  provide 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive ! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod ;  nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff  that  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three  parts  pain !  strive  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe ! 

For  thence  —  a  paradox  which  comforts  while  it  mocks  — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  tliat  it  seems  to  fail : 
"What  I  aspired  to  be,  and  was  not,  comforts  me ; 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute  whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit. 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test  —  thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  :  I  own  the  past  profuse 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole,  brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How  good  to  live  and  learn"? 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  tliine!  I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too: 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  :  thanks  that  I  was  a  man ! 

Maker,  remake,  complete,  —I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  dol" 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh :  our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

rullod  ever  to  the  cartli,  sllll  yearns  for  rest: 
Would  we  some  prize  raii^ht  hold  to  match  those  manifold 

PoflSQssions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as  we  did  best  I 


RABBI  BEN   EZRA.  221 

Let  as  not  always  say,  "  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole !  ** 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  let  us  cry,  "  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  scull " 

Therefore  I  summon  age  to  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved  a  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute ;  a  God  though  in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon  take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new ; 
Fearless  and  unperplexed,  when  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try  my  gain  or  loss  thereby; 

Leave  the  Are  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same,  give  life  its  praise  or  blame : 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts,  a  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  ofl",  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray : 
A  whisper  from  the  west  shoots,  "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day." 

So,  still  within  this  life,  though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  that  acquiescence  vain: 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved  to  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day ; 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch  the  Master  work,  and  catch 

HUnts  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth  should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made ; 
So,  better,  age,  exempt  from  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age ;  wait  death  nor  be  afraid  I 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right  and  Good  and  Influite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  call'st  thy  hand  thine  own. 

With  knowledge  absolute,  subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 


222  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

I 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all,  sevei*ed  great  minds  from  small, 

Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 
Was  I  the  world  arraigned,  were  they  my  soul  disdained, 

Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last  I 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate?    Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  match  me :  we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  and  I  that ;  whom  shall  my  soul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass  called  "  work"  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand,  the  low  world  laid  its  hand. 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice : 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb  and  finger  failed  to  plumb, 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account; 
All  instincts  immature,  all  purposes  unsure. 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount; 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed  into  a  narrow  act. 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped ; 

All  I  could  never  be,  all  men  ignored  in  me. 

This  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel,  that  metaphor !  and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay,  — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound,  when  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day  I  " 

Fool !     All  that  is  at  all  lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  an:'.  God  stand  sure: 
What  entered  into  thee,  that  was,  is,  and  shall  be  : 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops ;  potter  and  clay  endure. 

nc  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance  of  plastic  circumstance, 
Tills  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest 

Machinery  just  meant  to  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves  which  ran  the  laughing  lovefl 

Around  tliy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 
Wliat  though,  about  thy  rim,  skull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  In  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 


THE  BONNETS  OF  BONNIE  DUNDEE.       223 

Look  thou  not  down  but  up !  to  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow,  the  Master's  lips  a-glow ! 

Thou,  Heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel? 

But  I  need,  now  as  then,  Thee,  God,  who  raouldest  men; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst. 
Did  I  —  to  the  wheel  of  life,  with  shapes  and  colors  rife, 

Bound  dizzily  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst ; 

So  take  and  use  Thy  work,  amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stufi",  what  warpings  past  the  aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand !  perfect  tlie  cup  as  planned ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same ! 

Browning. 


THE  BONNETS  OP  BONNIE  DUNDEE. 
rpo  the  lords  of  convention  'twas  Claverhouse  spoke, 
-L     "  Ere  the  king's  crown  shall  fall  there  are  crowns  to  be  broke  j 
So  let  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me 
Come  follow  the  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dundee !  " 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can; 

Come  saddle  yoiir  horses,  aiid  call  up  your  men  ; 

Come  open  the  Westport,  and  let  us  gang  free, 

And  it 's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dundee/ 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  tlicy  are  beat; 
But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said,  "  Just  e'en  let  him  be, 
The  gude  toun  is  well  quit  of  that  deil  of  Dundee ! " 

As  he  rode  doun  the  sanctified  bends  of  tlie  Bow 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow ; 

But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked  cowthie  and  slee, 

Thinking,  Luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  bonnie  Dundee ! 

With  sour-featured  whigs  the  grass-market  was  thranged 
As  if  half  the  west  liad  set  tryst  to  be  hanged; 
There  was  spite- in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  ee, 
As  they  watched  for  tlie  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  I'ad  spits  and  had  spears, 
And  lang-haf  ted  gullies  to  kill  cavaliers  j 


924  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  castle  rock, 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke : 

"Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa  words  or  three. 

For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee." 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes,  — 
*'  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose ! 
Tour  grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of  me. 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

"  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  lands  beyond  Forth ; 
If  there  's  loi'ds  in  the  Lowlands,  there 's  chiefs  in  the  north; 
There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thousand  times  three 
Will  cry  '  Hoigh ! '  for  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

"  There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull-hide, 
There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside; 
The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash  free, 
At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

"  Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks ; 
Ere  I  own  a  usurper,  I  '11  couch  with  the  fox ; 
And  tremble,  false  whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me." 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were  blown, 
The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on. 
Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  bonnie  Dundee. 


Scot' 


THE  RISING  IN  1776. 
/"\UT  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
-^     Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame, 
Swift  as  the  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 
And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  flfe's  shrill  note,  the  drum's  loud  Ijcat, 
And  through  the  wide  land  everywhere 
The  answering  trcarl  of  hurrying  feei> 


THE  RISING  IN   1776.  225 

While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington ; 
And  Concord,  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power, 
And  swelled  the  discord  of  the  hour. 

"Within  Its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 

The  church  of  Berkley  Manor  stood; 
There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk. 

And  some  esteemed  of  gentle  blood. 

In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Passed  'mid  the  graves  where  rank  is  naughty 
All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 

In  that  republic  of  the  dead. 

How  sweet  the  hour  of  Sabbath  talk. 

The  vale  with  peace  and  sunshine  full 
Where  all  the  happy  people  Avalk, 

Decked  in  their  homespun  flax  and  wool! 

Where  youth's  gay  hats  with  blossoms  bloomj 
And  every  maid,  with  simple  art, 
Wears  on  her  breast,  like  her  own  heart, 

A  bud  whose  depths  are  all  perfume; 
While  every  garment's  gentle  stir 
Is  breathing  rose  and  lavender. 

The  pastor  came ;  his  snowy  locks 

Hallowed  his  brow  of  thought  and  care; 
And  calmly,  as  shepherds  lead  their  flocks, 

He  led  into  the  house  of  prayer. 
The  pastor  rose;  the  prayer  was  strong; 
The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  soug; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might, — 
"The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  tlie  right  I" 

He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 


226  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Compelled  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing. 

And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 

The  imaginary  battle-brand. 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tj^rant  king. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude. 
Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  Are 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo !   he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

A  moment  there  was  awful  pause,  — 

"When  Berkley  cried,  "Cease,  traitor!   cease'; 

God's  temple  is  the  house  of  peace ! " 

The  other  shouted,  "Nay,  not  so, 
When  God  is  with  our  righteous  cause; 
His  holiest  places  then  are  ours. 
His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers, 

That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe; 
In  this,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  day, 
There  is  a  time  to  flght  and  pray ! " 

And  now  before  the  open  door  — 

The  warrior  priest  had  ordered  so  — 
The  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  roar 
Rang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Its  long  reverberating  blow. 
So  loud  and  clear,  It  seemed  the  ear 
Of  dusty  death  must  wake  and  hear. 
And  tliere  the  startling  drum  and  flfe 
Fired  tlu;  living  with  Ik-rcor  life: 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Porgctting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 
The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before: 


THE   BURIAL   OF   MOSES.  22^ 

It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease; 
And  every  Avord  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 
Was  "WarI   WAit!   War!" 

"Who  dares"  —  this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came — • 
"Come  out  with  me,  in  Freedom's  name, 
For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die?" 
A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 
A  hundred  voices  answered,  "//" 

T.  B.  Read. 


THE  BUEIAL  OF  MOSES. 
13  Y  Nebo's  lonely  mountain,  on  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
-'-^     In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab,  there  lies  a  lonely  grave; 
But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre,  and  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod,  and  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral  that  ever  passed  on  earth ; 

"But  no  man  heard  the  tramping,  or  saw  the  train  go  forth ; 

Noiselessly  as  the  daylight  comes  Avhen  the  night  is  done. 

And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek  grows  into  the  great  sun,  — 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time  her  crown  of  verdure  weaves. 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills  open  their  thousand  leaves,  — 

So,  without  sound  of  music,  or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crown  the  great  procession  swept. 

Lo  I  when  the  warrior  dieth,  his  comrades  in  the  war. 

With  arms  reversed,  and  muffled  drum,  follow  the  funeral  car. 

They  show  the  banners  taken,  they  tell  his  battles  won. 

And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed,  while  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land  men  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place  with  costly  marble  dressed, 
In  the  great  minster  transept,  where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  sweet  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings,  along  the  emblazoned 
wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior  that  ever  buckled  sword; 

This  the  most  gifted  poet  that  ever  breathed  a  word ; 

And  never  earth's  philosopher  traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage,  as  he  wrote  down  for  men. 


228  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor,  the  hillside  for  his  pall ; 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait  with  stars  for  tapers  tall; 

And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes,  over  his  bier  to  wave; 

And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land,  to  lay  him  in  the  grave? 

Oh,  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land,  oh,  dark  Beth-peor's  hill, 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours,  and  teach  them  to  be  stUL 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  Grace  —  ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep  of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander. 


THE  BRIDATi  OP  MALAHIDE. 

rpHE  joy-bells  are  ringing  in  gay  Malahide,  the  fresh  wind  is  singing 
-■-  along  the  seaside ;  the  maids  are  assembling  with  garlands  of 
flowers,  and  the  harpstrings  are  trembling  in  all  the  glad  bowers.  Swell, 
swell  the  gay  measure!  roll  trumpet  and  drum!  'mid  greetings  of 
pleasure  in  splendor  they  come !  The  chancel  is  ready,  the  portal 
stands  wide  for  the  lord  and  the  lady,  the  bridegroom  and  bride. 

Before  the  high  altar  young  Maud  stands  array'd ;  with  accents  that 
falter  her  promise  is  made  —  from  father  and  mother  forever  to  part, 
for  him  and  no  other  to  treasure  her  heart.  The  words  are  repeated, 
the  bridal  is  done,  the  rite  is  completed  —  the  two,  they  are  one;  tlie 
vow,  it  is  spoken  all  pure  from  the  heart,  that  must  not  be  broken  till 
life  shall  depart. 

Hark !  'mid  the  gay  clangor  that  compassed  their  car,  loud  accents 
In  anger  come  mingling  afar !  The  foe  's  on  the  border,  his  weapons 
resound  where  the  lines  in  disorder  unguarded  are  found. 

As  wakes  the  good  shepherd,  the  watchful  and  bold,  when  the 
ounce  or  the  leopard  is  seen  in  the  fold,  so  rises  already  the  chief  in 
his  mail,  while  the  new-married  lady  looks  fainting  and  pale.  "  Son, 
husband,  and  brother,  arise  to  the  strife,  for  the  sister  and  mother,  for 
cliildren  and  wife !  O'er  hill  and  o'er  hollow,  o'er  mountain  and  plain, 
up,  true  men,  and  follow !  let  dastards  remain !  " 

Hurrah!  to  the  battle!  they  form  into  line  —  the  shields,  how  they 
rattle !  tlie  spears,  how  they  shine !  soon,  soon  sliall  the  foeman  his 
treaclicry  rue  :  on,  burgher  and  yeoman,  to  die  or  to  do! 

The  eve  is  declining  in  lone  Malahide,  the  maidens  are  twining  gay 
wreaths  for  the  bride ;  she  marks  them  unheeding  —  her  heart  is  afar, 
where  the  clansmen  are  bleeding  for  her  in  the  war. 


ALEXANDER'S   FEAST.  229 

Hark  I  loud  from  the  mountain  —  't  Is  Victory's  cry !  o'er  woodland 
and  fountain  it  rings  to  tlie  slcy  I  Tlie  foe  has  retreated  !  he  flies  to  the 
shore;  the  spoiler's  defeated  — the  combat  is  o'er!  With  forelieads 
unruflled  the  conquerors  come  — but  ^vhy  liave  they  muftled  the  lance 
and  the  drum?  what  form  do  they  carry  aloft  en  his  shield?  and  where 
does  he  tarry,  the  lord  of  the  field? 

Ye  saw  him  at  morning  how  gallant  and  gay !  in  bridal  adorning  the 
star  of  tlie  day:  now  weep  for  the  lover, — his  triumph  is  sped,  his 
hope  it  is  over !  the  chieftain  is  dead ! 

But,  oh!  for  the  maiden  who  mourns  for  that  chief,  with  heart  over- 
laden and  rending  with  grief !  she  sinks  on  the  meadow,  —  in  on* 
morning-tide  a  wife  and  a  widow,  a  maid  and  a  bride !  Ye  maidens 
attending,  forbear  to  condole !  your  comfort  is  rending  the  depths  of 
her  soul.  True  — true,  'twas  a  story  for  ages  of  pride,  he  died  in  his 
glory  —  but,  oh,  he  has  died !  The  dead-bells  are  tolling  in  sad  Mala- 
hide,  the  dead-wail  is  rolling  along  the  seaside;  the  crowds,  heavy- 
hearted,  withdraw   from  the  green,   for  the   sun  has  departed  that 

brighten'd  the  scene  I 

(herald  Griffin. 


ALEXANDER'S  EEAST. 


'  rr^  WAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

-*-      By  Philip's  warlike  son  — 
Aloft  in  awful  state  the  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne ;  his  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown'd) ; 

The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side  sate  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride :  — 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave,  none  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair  I 

Timotheus  placed  on  high  amid  the  tuneful  quire 
With  flying  fingers  touch' d  the  lyre : 

The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky  and  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove  who  left  his  blissful  seats  above  — 
Such  is  the  power  of  iiiiglity  love ! 
A  dragon's  flery  form  belied  the  god; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode 


280  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  prest, 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 

Then  round  her  slender  wrist  he  curl'd, 

And  stamp'd  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 

—  The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound ! 
A  present  deity !  they  shout  around : 

A  present  deity !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound ! 
With  ravish'd  ears  the  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god ;  aiTects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung: 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young : 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes !  sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drunasl 
Flush'd  with  a  purple  grace  he  shows  his  honest  face  : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes,  he  comes  ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young,  drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure,  drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  •■ 
Rich  the  treasure  sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain! 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise. 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied 
Changed  his  hand  and  check'd  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse,  soft  pity  to  infuse : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good,  ])y  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 

Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need,  by  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies  with  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

—  With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 

Revolving  in  his  alter'd  soul  the  various  turns  of  Chance  below; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole,  and  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  In  the  next  degree; 
T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move. 


ALEXANDERS  FEAST.  281 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  In  Lydian  measures 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 

War,  he  sung  is  toil  and  trouble,  honor  but  an  empty  bubble, 

Never  ending,  still  beginning;  fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  VForld  be  worth  thy  winning,  think,  O  thinlt,  it  worth  enjoying -• 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee,  take  tlie  good  the  gods  provide  thee  I 

—  The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crown'd,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 

Gazed  on  the  fair  who  caused  his  care, 
And  sigh'd  and  look'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 
Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again : 
At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  opprest 
The  vauquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain ! 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  :  as  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 
Bee  the  Furies  arise !  see  the  snakes  that  they  rear 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes ! 
Behold  a  gliastly  band  each  a  torch  in  liis  hand ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain 
And  unburied  remain  inglorious  on  the  plain : 
Give  the  vengeance  due  to  the  valiant  crew  1 
Behold  how  tliey  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 

—  The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy : 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way  to  liglit  him  to  his  prey, 
And  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 

—  Thus,  long  ago,  ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blo"W, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute,  Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 


532  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  sounding  lyre  could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came,  inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 

The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

—  Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize  or  both  divide  the  crown; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ;  she  drew  an  angel  down ! 

Dryden. 


NATUEE  AND  GOD. 


"TT>VEIIY  moment  of  our  lives,  we  breathe,  stand,  or  move  in 
-* — ^  the  temple  of  the  Most  High ;  for  the  whole  universe  is 
that  temple.  Wherever  we  go,  the  testimony  to  His  power, 
the  Impress  of  His  hand  are  there. 

Ask  of  the  bright  woilds  around  us,  as  they  roll  in  the  ever- 
lasting harmony  of  their  circles  ;  and  they  shall  tell  you  of 
Him  whose  power  launched  them  on  their  courses. 

Ask  <;f  the  mountains,  that  lift  their  heads  among  and  above 
the  clouds;  and  the  bleak  summit  of  one  shall  seem  to  call 
aloud  to  the  snow-clad  top  of  another,  in  proclaiming  their 
testimony  to  the  Agency  which  has  laid  their  deep  founda- 
tions. 

Ask  of  ocean's  waters ;  and  the  roar  of  their  boundless 
waves  shall  chant  from  shore  to  shore  a  h^'mu  of  ascription  to 
that  Being,  who  hath  said,  "Hitherto  shall  ye  come  and  no 
further." 

Ask  of  the  rivers  ;  and  as  they  roll  onward  to  the  sea,  do 
they  not  bear  along  their  ceaseless  tribute  to  the  ever-working 
Energy,  which  struck  open  their  fountains  and  poured  theii> 
doivn  through  the  v  lleys? 

Ask  of  every  i-cgion  of  the  eai-tli,  from  the  burning  equator 
to  the  icy  poli;,  from  th  rock-bouud  coast  to  the  plain,  covered 
with  its  hixuiiant  vegetation  ;  and  will  you  not  find  ou  them 
all,  the  "^cord  of  the  Creator's  presence  ? 


HUNTING  SONG.  283 

Ask  of  the  countless  tribes  of  plants  and  animals ;  and  shall 
they  not  testify  to  the  action  of  the  great  Source  of  Life? 

Yes,  from  every  portion,  from  every  department  of  nature, 
comes  the  same  voice  :  everywhere  we  hear  Thy  name,  0  God ; 
everywhere  we  see  Thy  love.  Creation,  in  all  its  depth  and 
height,  is  the  manifestation  of  Thy  Spirit,  and  without  Thee 
the  world  were  dark  and  dead. 

The  universe  is  to  us  as  the  burning  bush  which  the  Hebrew 
leader  saw  :  God  is  ever  present  in  it,  for  it  burns  with  Hia 
glory,  and  the  ground  on  which  we  stand  is  always  holy. 

Francis. 


HUNTma  SONG. 


WAKEN,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 
With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear; 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily  mingle  they, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming, 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies. 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay ; 
vVaken,  lords  aud  ladies  gay. 


SS4  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Kun  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman !  who  can  baulk, 

Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk ; 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 


Scott. 


THE  BATTLE  OP  WATEELOO. 

r  I  ^HERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
-'-      And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry ;  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merrj'  as  a  marriage-bell : 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?  —  No ;  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance !     Let  joy  be  unconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet ; 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet  — 
But,  hark !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !  arm !  it  is  —  it  is  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  lieart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rushed  Into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 


THE   BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO.  2M 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
BInce  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  "  The  foe !     They  come !  they  come ! " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Camerons'  gathering"  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  —  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes  : 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  Avith  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  All  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years. 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears  I 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves. 
Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass. 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  — alas  I 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  tho  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 


285 


CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 


Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  — the  day, 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent! 


Byron^ 


DEATH  OF  MAEMION. 

BLOUNT  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still  with  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill-, 
on  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent)  the  western  sunbeams  now 
were  bent.  The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew,  could  plain  their 
distant  comrades  view :  sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say,  "  Unworthy 
office  here  to  stay  !  no  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day.  —But  see !  look  up 
—  onEloddenbent  the  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent."  And  sudden 
as  he  spoke,  from  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill,  all  downward  to  the 
banks  of  Till,  was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke.  Volumed  and  fast,  anJ 
rolling  far,  the  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war,  as  down  the  hill  they 
broke;  nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone,  announced  their  march; 
their  tread  alone,  at  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown,  at  times  a 
stifled  hum,  told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne  King  James  did 
rushing  come.  Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes,  until  at 
weapon-point  they  close.  They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust., 
with  sword-sway,  and  with  lance's  thrust;  .  .  .  long  looked  the 
anxious  squires ;  their  eye  could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast  aside  the  shroud  of  battle 
cast ;  and  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears  above  the  brightening  cloud 
appears ;  and  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew,  as  in  the  storm  the  white 
sea-mew.  Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far,  the  broken  billows 
of  the  war,  and  plum6d  crests  of  chieftains  brave,  floating  like  foam 
upon  the  wave ;  but  naught  distinct  they  see :  wide  raged  the  battle 
on  the  plain ;  spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain ;  fell  England's 
arrow-flight  like  rain ;  crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again,  wild  and 
disorderly.  Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high  they  saw  Lord  Marmion's 
falcon  fly  :  and  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white,  and  Edmund  Howard's 
lion  bright,  stdl  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight;  although  against  them 
come  of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one,  with  Uuntly  and  with  Home. 


DEATH  OF   MARMTON.  287 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while,  Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle ; 
though  there  the  western  mountaineer  rushed  with  bare  l^opom  on 
the  spear,  and  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside,  and  with  bo^Ji  hands  the 
broadsword  plied,  't  was  vain :  but  Fortune,  on  the  right,  with  fickle 
smile  cheered  Scotland's  fight.  Then  fell  that  ppo'.'ess  banner  white, 
the  Howard's  lion  fell ;  yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  /aicon  flew  with  waver- 
ing flight,  while  fiercer  grew  around  the  battip-yell.  The  Border  slogan 
rent  the  sky !  a  Home !  a  Gordon !  was  the  cry  :  loud  were  the  clanging 
blows;  advanced,  —  forced  back,  — povj  low,  now  high,  the  pennon 
sunk  and  rose;  as  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale,  when  rent  are 
rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail,  It  wavered  'mid  the  foes. 

No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear :  "  By  Heaven  and  all  its  saints ! 
I  swear,  I  will  not  see  it  lost  I  Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare  may 
bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer,  —  I  gallop  to  the  host."  And  to  the 
fray  he  rode  amain,  followed  by  all  the  archer  train.  The  fiery  youth, 
with  desDcrate  charge,  made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large,  —  the 
rescued  banner  rose,  —  but  darkly  closed  the  war  around,  like  pine-tree, 
rooted  from  the  ground,  it  sunk  among  the  foes.  Then  Eustace 
mounted  too:  yet  stayed,  as  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid,  when, 
fast  as  shaft  can  fly,  bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread,  the  loose 
rein  dangling  from  his  head,  housing  and  saddle  bloody  red.  Lord 
Marmion's  steed  rushed  by ;  and  Eustace  maddrning  at  the  sight,  a 
look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast,  to  mark  he  would  return  in  haste,  then 
plunged  into  the  flght. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels,  left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone : 
perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels ;  perchance  a  courage  not  her  own 
braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone.  The  scattered  van  of  England 
wheels;  she  only  said,  as  loud  in  air  the  tumult  roared,  "  Is  Wilton 
ihere?"— they  fly,  or  maddened  by  despair,  flght  but  to  die,  —  "Is 
Wilton  there?  "  With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode  two  horsemen 
drenched  with  gore,  and  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load,  a  wounded 
knight  they  bore.  His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand ;  his  arms 
were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand.  Dragged  from  among  the  horses' 
feet,  with  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat,  the  falcon-crest  and  plumage 
gone,  can  that  be  haughty  Marmion !  .  .  .  Young  Blount  his  armor  did 
unlace,  and,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face,  said,  ♦'  By  Saint  George,  he  'a 
gone!  that  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, —  and  seethe  deep  cut 
on  his  head!  good-night  to  Marmion." — "Unnurtured  Blount!  thy 
brawling  cease :  he  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace ;  "  peace !  " 


^88  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air,  around 'gan  Marmion  wildly 
stare :  "Where  's  Harry  Blount?  Fitz-Eustace  where?  linger  ye  here,  ye 
hearts  of  hare!  redeem  my  pennon,  — charge  again!  cry —  '  Marmion 
to  the  rescue ! '  —  Vain !  last  of  my  race  —  on  battle-plain  that  shout 
saall  ne'er  be  heard  again !  —  Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  —  fly, 
to  Dacre  bear  my  signet  ring :  tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie;  Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field,  his 
life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield :  Edmund  is  down :  —  my  life  is 
reft ;  the  admiral  alone  is  left.  Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 
with  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire,  full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
or  victory  and  England's  lost.  Must  I  bid  twice? — hence,  varlets! 
fly!  leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die."  They  parted,  and  alone  he 
lay;  Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away,  till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly 
moan,  and  half  he  murmured,  "  Is  there  none,  of  all  my  halls  have 
nurst,  page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring  of  blessed  water  from 
the  spring,  to  slake  my  dying  thirst?  " 
/  0  woman !  in  our  hours  of  ease,  uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
/  and  variable  as  the  shade  by  the  light,  quivering  aspen  made ;  when 
pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow,  a  ministering  angel  thou !  —  Scarce 
were  the  piteous  accents  said,  when,  with  the  baron's  casque,  the  maid 
to  the  nigh  streamlet  ran :  forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ;  the 
plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears,  sees  but  the  dying  man.  She  stooped 
her  by  the  runnel's  side,  but  in  abhorrence  backward  drew;  for,  oozing 
from  the  mountain's  side,  where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide  was 
curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue.  Where  shall  she  turn !  —  behold  her 
mark  a  little  fountain  cell,  where  water,  clear  as  diamond- spark,  in  a 
stone  basin  fell.     Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say,  drink  weary 

PILGRIM,    DRINK   AND  PRAY,    FOR   THE  KIND  SOUL  OF  SYBIL  GRAY,    WHO 

BUILT  THIS  CROSS  AND  WKLL.  She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
and  with  surprise  and  joy  espied  a  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head; 
a  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought  to  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought,  to 
^  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 
^  Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave,  and,  as  she  stooped  his  brow 
to  lave,  — "  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said,  "  or  injured  Constance, 
bathes  my  head?  "  Then  as  remembrance  rose,  —  "  Speak  not  to  me  of 
shrift  or  prayer !  I  must  redress  her  woes.  Short  space,  few  words, 
are  mine  to  spare;  forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare!"  "Alas!"  she 
aaid,  "  the  while,  —  0,  think  of  your  immortal  weal!  in  vain  for  Con- 
stance is  your  zeal;  she  died  at  Holy  Isle."    Lord  Marmion  started 


SOLILOQUIES  FROM   HAMLET.  289 

from  the  grround,  as  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound :  though  in  the  action 
burst  the  tide,  in  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side.  "Then  it  was 
truth,"  he  said:  "I  knew  that  the  dark  presage  must  be  true.  I 
would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs  the  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 
would  spare  me  but  a  day!  for  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan,  and 
priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone,  might  bribe  hira  for  delay.  It  may  not 
be! — this  dizzy  trance  —  curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance,  and 
doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand !  a  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk,  supported  by  the  trembling 
monk. 

With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound,  and  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing 
Wound :  the  monk  with  unavailing  cares,  exhausted  all  the  Church's 
prayers.  Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near,  a  lady's  voice  was  in 
his  ear,  and  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear ;  for  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  home  down  l»j  the  flying,  where  mingles  war's  rattle 
with  groans  of  the  dying  l"  So  the  notes  rung.  "Avoid  thee,  Fiend  I 
with  cruel  hand  shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand !  O,  look,  my  son, 
upon  yon  sign  of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine;  O,  think  on  faith  and 
bliss !  —  By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been,  and  many  a  sinner's  parting 
seen,  but  never  aught  like  this."  The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale,  and  —  Stanley !  was  the  cry,  — a 
light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread,  and  fired  his  glazing  eye :  with  dying 
hand,  above  his  head,  he  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade,  and  shouted, 
"Victory!  —  charge,  Chester,  charge!      On,  Stanley,  on!"  were  the 

last  words  of  Marmion. 

Scoit. 

SOLILOQUIES  FBOM  HAMLET. 
I. 
A   Y,  so,  God  be  wi'  ye.     [^Exeunt  Hosencrantz  and  Guilden 
-^-^    stern-l     Now  I  am  alone. 
O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 
Could  force  his  soul  so  to  liis  own  conceit, 
Tliat  from  her  working  all  his  visage  wann'd, 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in 's  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
"With  forms  to  his  conceit?  and  all  for  notliingl 
For  Hecuba ! 


240  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

What 's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 

That  he  should  weep  for  her?    What  would  he  do, 

Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion 

That  I  have?    He  would  drown  the  stage  with  tears, 

And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech ; 

Make  mad  the  guilty  and  appall  the  free. 

Confound  the  ignorant,  and  amaze  indeed 

The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears. 

Yet  I, 

A  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak. 

Like  John-a-dreams,  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 

And  can  saj''  nothing ;  no,  not  for  a  king 

Upon  whose  property  and  most  dear  life 

A  damn'd  defeat  was  made.    Am  I  a  coward? 

Who  calls  me  villain?  breaks  my  pate  across? 

Plucks  off  my  beard,  and  blows  it  in  my  face? 

Tweaks  me  by  the  nose?  gives  me  the  lie  i'  the  throat, 

As  deep  as  to  the  lungs?  who  does  me  this? 

Ha! 

'Swounds,  I  should  take  it :  for  it  cannot  be 

But  I  am  pigeon-liver" d  and  lack  gall 

To  make  oppression  bitter,  or  ere  this 

I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 

With  this  slave's  offal :  bloody,  bawdy  villain ! 

Remorseless,  treacherous,  lecherous,  kindloss  villain  1 

0,  vengeance! 

Why,  what  an  ass  am  I !    This  is  most  brave, 

That  I,  the  son  of  a  dear  father  murder'd. 

Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell, 

Must,  like  a  trull,  unpack  my  heart  with  words. 

And  fall  a-cursing,  like  a  very  drab, 

A  scullion ! 

Fie  upon  *t !  foh  I     About,  my  brain !     I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play 

Have  by  the  vory  cunning  of  the  scene 

Been  struck  so  to  the  soul  that  presently 

Thoy  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions  ; 

For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 

With  most  miraculous  organ.     I  'U  have  these  players 


SOLILOQUIES   FROM   HAMLET.  241 

Play  somethlnjj  like  the  murder  of  my  father 
Before  mine  uncle  :  I  '11  observe  his  looks; 
I  '11  tent  him  to  the  quick  :  if  he  but  blench, 
I  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 
M:iy  be  the  devil :  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and  perhaps 
Out  of  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy, 
As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits. 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me  :  I  '11  have  grounds 
More  relative  than  this  :  the  play's  the  thing 
Wherein  I  '11  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 


nnO  be  or  not  to  be :  that  is  the  question : 
-*-      "Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suSfer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them?    To  die :  to  sleep; 
No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to :  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die,  to  sleep ; 
To  sleep  :  perchance  to  dream  !  —  ay,  there 's  the  rub; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuftled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  :  there 's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
Th(!  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  mako 
With  a  bare  bodkin?  who  'd  these  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 
The  undiscover'd  country  fn^m  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 


241  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 

With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry, 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 

8hakeaptar«, 


OF  STUDIES. 


O  TUDIES  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability. 
^^  Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring  ; 
for  ornament,  is  in  discourse  ;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judg- 
ment and  disposition  of  business :  for  expert  men  can  exe- 
cute, and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one ;  but  the 
general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs  come 
best  from  those  that  are  learned. 

To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too 
much  for  ornament  is  affectation  ;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by 
their  rules,  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar :  they  perfect  nature,  and 
are  perfected  by  experience  :  for  natural  abilities  are  like  nat- 
ural plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study  ;  and  stu'iies  themselves 
do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be 
bounded  in  by  experience. 

Crafty  men  condemn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them;  and 
wise  men  use  them  ;  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use  ;  bnt  that 
is  a  wisdom  without  tiiem  and  above  them,  won  by  observatior*. 
Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for 
granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  con 
sider. 

Some  books  arc  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  anc 
some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested  ;  that  is,  some  books  are 
to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously  ; 
and  some  few  to  be  read  wiiolly,  and  with  diligence  and  atten- 
tion.    Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts 


INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY.  248 

made  of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  im- 
portant argument,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books  ;  else  distilled 
books  are,  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things. 

Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and 
writing  an  exact  man  ;  and  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he 
had  need  have  a  great  memory  ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need 
have  a  present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have 
much  cunning,  to  seem  to  kuow  that  he  doth  not. 

If  a  man's  wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the  mathemat- 
ics ;  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away  never  so 
little,  he  must  begin  again  :  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish 
or  find  differences,  let  him  study  the  schoolmen ;  if  he  be  not 
apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and 
illustrate  another,  let  him  study  the  lawyers'  cases ;  so  every 
defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 

Bacon. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMOETALITT. 

rriHERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
-*-      The  earth,  and  every  common  sight  to  me  did  seem 

Apparelled  in  celestial  light,  the  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ;  — ■ 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 

By  uight  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more  1 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 
The  moon  dotli  with  delight  look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night  are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  l)ouiul  as  to  the  tabor's  sonnd, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief : 


244  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 
And  I  again  am  strong. 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ; 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 

I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng ; 

The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ;  land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity,  and  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday.     Thou  child  of  joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  shepherd  boy  J 

Ye  bless6d  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 
My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all.  O  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning  this  sweet  May  morning, 

And  the  children  are  pulling  on  every  side. 

In  a  thousand  vallcj^s  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm. 

And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm :  — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hearl 

But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone ; 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat  : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting ; 

The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  and  comcth  from  afar; 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulncss,  and  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  Is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  In  our  Infancy ; 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close  upon  the  growing  boy. 
But  ho  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows,  he  sees  It  in  his  joy; 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY.  34^ 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 
And  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind 
And  no  unworthy  aim. 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate,  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pygmy  size ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life. 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned  art; 
A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love  or  5*rtf»j 
But  it  wUl  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 
And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 


246  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage ;  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  Mind  — 

Mighty  Prophet !   Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thj'  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
"Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  —  not,  indeed. 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast : 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things,  fallings  fi'om  us,  vanlshings* 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  abc)nt  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  oui'  xnortal  natare 


INTIMATIONS   OP  IMMORTALITY.  247 

Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised ; 

But  for  those  first  affections,  those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake,  to  perish  never, 
"Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor,  nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  I 
Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather,  though  Inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds !  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  In  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be, 

Jp  thft  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering, 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O,  5'e  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Think  not  of  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 


S48  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  liabitual  sway. 

I  love  the  broolis  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day  is  lovely  yet : 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 

Do  tal<e  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hatli  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys  and  fears. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


Wordgworth. 


GOODY  BLAKE  AND  HAEEY  GILL. 

'VT'OUNG  Tlarry  was  a  lusty  drover,  and  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he? 
-*-  His  clieeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover,  liis  voice  was  like  tlie  voice 
of  three.  Auld  Goody  Blake  was  old  and  poor,  ill  fed  she  was,  and 
thinly  clad ;  and  any  man  who  passed  her  door,  might  see  how  poor  a 
hut  she  had. 

All  day  she  spun  in  her  poor  dwelling,  and  then  her  three  hours 
work  at  night !  alas  !  't  was  hardly  worth  the  telling,  it  would  not  pay 
for  candle-light.  This  woman  dwelt  in  Dorsetshire,  her  hut  was  on  a 
cold  hillside,  and  in  tliat  country  coals  are  dear,  for  they  come  far  by 
wind  and  tide.  .  .  . 

Now  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring,  and  made  her  poor  old  bones 
to  ache,  could  anything  be  more  alluring,  than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody 
Blake?  And  now  and  then,  it  must  bo  said,  when  her  old  bones  were 
cold  and  chill,  she  left  her  fixe,  or  left  her  botl,  to  seek  tlie  hedge  of 
Harry  Gill. 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected  this  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake, 
and  vowed  that  she  shoiiUl  he  detected,  and  he  on  her  would  vengeance 
take.  And  oft  from  his  warm  Are  he  'd  go,  and  to  the  fields  his  road 
would  take,  and  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow,  he  watched  to  seize 
old  Goody  Bhikc. 

And  once  bohiiid  a  rick  of  barley,  thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand; 
the  moon  was  full  antl  sinning  clearly,  and  crisp  with  frost  the  stub*Me 
land.    He  hears  a  uoiso  —  he 'a  all  awake  —  again! — on  tiptoo  dowu 


SIR  PATRICK   SPENS.  24^ 

the  hill  he  softly  creeps.  'T  is  Goody  Blake!  she's  at  the  hedge  of 
Uarry  GilL  Right  glad  was  lie  when  lie  belield  her :  stick  after  stick 
did  Goody  pull :  he  stood  behind  a  bush  of  elder,  till  she  had  filled  her 
apron  full.  When  with  her  load  she  turned  about,  the  by-road  back 
again  to  take,  he  started  forward  witli  a  shout,  and  sprang  upon  poor 
Goody  Blake. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  took  her,  and  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast, 
and  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her,  and  cried,  "  I  've  caught  you  then 
at  last !  "  Then  Goody,  who  had  nothing  said,  her  bundle  from  her  lap 
let  fall;  and  kneeling  on  tlie  sticks,  she  praj'edto  God  tliat  is  tlie  judge 
of  all.  She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing,  while  Harry  held  her 
by  the  arm,  "God!  who  art  never  out  of  hearing,  O  may  he  never 
more  be  warm!"  The  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head,  thus  on  her 
knees  did  Goody  pray :  young  Harry  heard  wliat  she  had  said,  and  icy 
cold  he  turned  away. 

No  word  to  any  man  he  utters,  abed  or  up,  to  young  or  old;  but  ever 

to  himself  he  mutters,  "  Poor  Harry  GilL  is  very  cold."     Abes'  or  up,  by 

night  or  day,  his  teeth  they  chatter,  cliatter  still :  now  think,  ye  farmers 

all,  I  pray,  of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill. 

WordavDorUu 


SIB  PATEICK  SPENS. 

THE  king  sits  In  Dunfermline  town,  drinking  the  blude-red  wine : 
"O  wliere  will  I  get  a  skeeiy  skipper,  to  sail  this  new  ship  of 
mine?" 
O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight,  sat  at  the  king's  right  knee, — 
"  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor,  that  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter,  and  sealed  It  with  his  hand. 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens,  was  walking  on  the  strand- 
"  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway,  to  Noroway  o'er  the  faem; 
The  king's  chuighter  of  Noroway,  'tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame." 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read,  sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read,  tlie  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 
"  0  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed,  and  tauld  tlie  king  o*  me, 
To  send  us  out,  this  time  of  the  year,  to  sail  upon  the  sea? 

"Be't  wind,  be't  weet,  be't  hall,  be't  sleet,  one  ship  must  sail  the 

faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway,  'tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 


350  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  mom,  wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway,  upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week,  in  Noroway,  but  twae, 

When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway  began  aloud  to  say,  — 

'*  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  gowd,  and  a'  our  queenis  fee," 

"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud !  fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ! 

"  For  I  hae  brought  as  much  white  monie,  as  gane  my  men  and  me, 
And  I  hae  brought  a  half-f  ou  o'  gude  red  goud,  out  o'er  the  sea  wi'  me." 
"Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry  men  a'!  our  gude  ship  sails  the 

morn." 
"Now,  ever  alake !  my  master  dear,  I  fear  a  deadly  storm ! 

"  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen,  wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm} 
And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master,  I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 
They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league,  a  league,  but  barely  three, 
"When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud,  and  gurly  grew  the 
sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap,  it  was  sic  a  deadly  storm ; 
And  the  waves  came  o'er  the  broken  ship,  till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 
"  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor,  to  take  my  helm  in  hand. 
Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast,  to  see  if  I  can  spy  land?  " 

"  0  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude,  to  take  the  helm  in  hand. 

Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast ;  but  I  fear  you  '11  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step,  a  step,  but  barely  ane. 

When  a  bolt  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship,  and  the  salt  sea  it  came  In. 

"  Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith,  another  of  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side,  and  letna  the  sea  come  in." 
They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith,  another  of  the  twine, 
And  they  wrapped  them  roun'  that  gude  ship's  side,  —  but  still  the  sea 
came  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords  to  wcet  their  cork-heeled  shoon  • 

But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played,  they  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  fcatlior-bod,  that  floated  on  the  facm; 

And  raony  was'tlie  gude  lord's  son,  that  never  niair  came  hame. 

The  laydes  wrang  their  Angers  wliite,  the  maidens  tore  their  hair, 
\'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves;  for  them  they  '11  see  na  nudr. 


MIDSUMMER.  S5) 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladyes  sit,  wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand. 
Before  they  see  Sir  Tatriclc  Spens  come  sailing  to  tlie  strand  I 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit,  w    !Jieir  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 
A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves  5  tor  them  tliey  '11  see  na  mair. 
O  forty  miles  off  Aberdeen,  't  is  fifty  fathoms  deep. 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens,  wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 
Old  Ballad.  Anon^noui, 

MIDSUMMER. 

AROUND  this  lovely  valley  rise 
The  purple  hills  of  Paradise. 
O,  softly  on  yon  banks  of  haze 
Her  rosy  face  the  Summer  lays ! 
Becalmed  along  the  azure  sky, 
The  argosies  of  Cloudland  lie, 
Whose  shores,  with  many  a  shining  rift, 
Far  off  tlieir  pearl-white  peaks  uplift. 
Through  all  the  long  midsummer  day 
The  meadow-sides  are  sweet  with  hay. 
I  seek  the  coolest  sheltered  seat. 
Just  where  the  field  and  forest  meet,  — 
Where  grow  the  pine-trees  tall  and  bland. 
The  ancient  oaks  austere  and  grand, 
And  fringy  roots  and  pebbles  fret 
The  ripples  of  the  rivulet. 

I  watch  the  mowers,  as  they  go  ^ 

Through  the  tall  grass,  a  white-sleeved  row. 
With  even  stroke  their  scythes  they  swing, 
In  tune  their  merry  whetstones  ring. 
Behind,  the  nimble  youngsters  run^ 
And  toss  the  thick  swaths  in  the  sun. 
The  cattle  graze,  Avhile,  warm  and  still, 
Slopes  the  broad  pasture,  basks  the  hill, 
And  bright,  where  summer  breezes  break, 
The  green  wheat  crinkles  like  a  lake. 
The  butterfly  aud  humble-bee 
Come  to  the  pleasant  woods  with  me ; 
Quickly  before  me  runs  the  quail, 
Her  chickens  skulk  behind  the  rail ; 


252  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

High  up  the  lone  wood-pigeon  sits, 
And  the  woodpecker  peclis  and  flits, 
Sweet  woodland  music  sinks  and  swells, 
The  brooklet  rings  its  tinkling  bells, 
The  swarming  insects  drone  and  hum, 
The  partridge  beats  his  throbbing  drum. 
The  squirrel  leaps  among  the  boughs. 
And  chatters  in  his  leafy  house, 
The  oriole  flashes  by ;  and,  look! 
Into  the  mirror  of  the  brook. 
Where  the  vain  bluebird  trims  his  coat, 
Two  tiny  feathers  fall  and  float. 
As  silently,  as  tenderly. 
The  down  of  peace  descends  on  me. 
O,  this  is  peace !     I  have  no  need 
Of  friend  to  talk,  of  book  to  read  : 
A  dear  Companion  here  abides ; 
Close  to  my  thrilling  heart  He  hides : 
The  holy  silence  is  His  voice  : 

I  lie  and  listen,  and  rejoice.  /•  T.  Trowbridge, 

Fr(yn  "  The  Vagabonds,  and  OtJier  Poems." 


TO  THE  DAISY. 
"TTTITH  little  here  to  do  or  see,  of  things  that  in  the  great  world 
*  '       be,  sweet  Daisy !  oft  I  talk  to  thee,  for  thou  art  worthy,  thou 
unassuming  commonplace  of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face,  and  yet 
with  something  of  a  grace  which  love  makes  for  thee ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease  I  sit  and  play  with  similes,  loose 
types  of  tilings  tlirough  all  degrees,  thoughts  of  thy  raising;  and  many 
a  fond  and  idle  name  I  give  to  thee,  for  praiii©  or  lilam©  as  Is  the  humor 
of  the  game,  while  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port;  or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  coort. 
In  thy  simplicity  the  sport  of  all  temptations;  a  queen  in  crown  of 
rubles  drcst;  a  starveling  In  a  scanty  vest;  «x«  all,  as  seems  to  suit 
thee  best,  thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye  staring  to  threaten  and  defy,  that 
thouglit  comes  next  —  and  instantly  the  freak  is  over,  the  shape  will 
vanisli,  and  beliold  !  a  silver  shield  with  boss  of  go'd  that  spreads  itself 
flomc  fairy  liold  in  f!;,'l)t  to  cover. 

I  see  Iheo  ifllttuing  from  afar  —  and  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star,  not 


LETTER  SCENE  FROM  MACBETH.  253 

quite  so  fair  as  many  are  in  heaven  above  thee !     Yet  like  a  star,  v?ith 

glittering  crest,  self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest; — may  peace 

come  never  to  his  nest  who  shall  reprove  thee ! 

Sweet  Flower !  for  by  that  name  at  last  when  all  my  reveries  are 

past  I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast,  sweet  silent  creature!  that 

brcath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air,  do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair  my 

heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share  of  thy  meek  nature ! 

Wordnoorth. 


LETTER  SCENE  FEOM  MACBETH. 
'T' ADY  MACBETH.     [Beadinfj  a  letter.]     "  They  met  me  in  the 
/  -^    day  of  success;  and  I  have  learned  by  the  perfectest  report, 
they  have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge.     When  I  burned  in 
desire  to  question  them  further,  they  made  themselves  —  air,  Into  which 
they  vanished.    "Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  the  wonder  of  it,  came  missives 
from  the  king,  who  all-hailed  me,  'Thane  of  Cawdor' ;  by  which  title, 
before,  these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming 
on  of  time,  with,  'Hail,  king  that  shalt  be!'      This  have  I  thought 
good  to  deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness,  that  thou  mlghtst 
not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of  what  greatness  is 
promised  thee.     Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell." 
Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor ;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promised.  —  Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature ; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 
To  catch  the  nearest  way.     Thou  wouldst  be  great ; 
Art  not  without  ambition,  but  without 
The  illness  should  attend  it.     What  thou  wouldst  highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily ;  wouldst  not  play  false, 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win  :  thou  'dst  have,  great  Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  "  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it"; 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do, 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  tlice  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear ; 
And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round. 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown'd  withal.  [Enter  Mksskxgkb. 

What  is  your  tidings? 
Messenger.     The  king  comes  here  to-night. 
L.  Macb.  Thou  'rt  mad  to  say  It 


^54  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him?  who,  were 't  so, 
Would  have  inform' d  for  preparation. 

Mess.     So  please  you,  it  is  true ;  our  thane  is  coming : 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him ; 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

L.  Macb.  Give  him  tending ;  [  Exit  Messenger. 

He  brings  great  news.  —  The  raven  himself  is  hoarse, 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.  —  Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here; 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  th'  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty !  make  thick  my  blood ; 
Stop  up  th'  access  and  passage  to  remorse ; 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it!     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief !     Come,  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell. 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  Heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry  "  Hold,  hold  !  " —  [Enter  Macbeth. 

Great  Glamis!  worthy  Cawdor! 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  Ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macbeth.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

L.  Macb.  And  when  goes  hence? 

Macb.     To-morrow,  — as  he  purposes. 

L.  Macb.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters.     To  beguile  the  time. 
Look  like  the  time;  boar  welcome  la  your  eye, 
Your  hand,  your  tongue  :  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 


THE   ELOQUENCE   OF  ADAMS.  255 

But  be  the  serpent  under 't.     He  that 's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch ; 
"Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Mncb.    We  will  speak  farther. 

L.  Macb.  Only  look  up  clear; 

To  alter  favor  ever  is  to  fear. 

Leave  all  the  rest  to  me. 

Shaketpeare. 

HELEN  TO   THE  SOLDIEES. 
"DOLDLY  she  spoke,  — '■  Soldiers,  attend! 
-'-^     My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend ; 
Cheer'd  him  in  camps,  in  marches  led, 
And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 
Not  from  the  valiant  or  tlie  strong, 
Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wrong."  Scott. 


THE  ELOQUENCE   OF    ADAMS. 

WHEN  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed  on  momentous 
occasions,  when  great  interests  are  at  stake,  and  strong 
passions  excited,  nothing  is  vaUiable  in  speech,  further  than  as 
it  is  connected  with  high  intellectual  and  moral  endowments. 
Clearness,  force,  and  earnestness  are  the  qualities  which  produce 
conviction. 

True  eloquence,  indeed,  does  not  consist  in  speech.  It  can- 
not be  brought  from  far.  Labor  and  learning  may  toil  for  it, 
but  they  will  toil  in  vain.  Words  and  phrases  may  be  mar- 
shalled in  every  way,  but  they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must 
exist  in  the  man,  in  the  suDject,  and  in  the  occasion.  Affected 
passion,  intense  expression,  the  pomp  of  declamation,  all  may 
aspire  after  it ;  they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes,  if  it  come  at 
all,  like  the  outbreaking  of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the 
bursting  forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original, 
native  force. 

The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments  and 
studied  contrivances  of  speech  shock  and  disgust  men,  when 


256  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

their  own  lives,  and  the  fate  of  their  wives,  their  children,  and 
their  country,  hang  on  the  decision  of  the  hour.  Then  words 
have  lost  their  power,  rhetoric  is  vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory 
contemptible.  Even  genius  itself  then  feels  rebuked  and  sub- 
dued, as  in  the  presence  of  higher  qualities.  Tlien  patriotism 
is  eloquent ;  then  self-devotion  is  eloquent.  The  clear  concep- 
tion, outrunning  the  deductions  of  logic,  the  high  purpose,  the 
firm  resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue,  beam- 
ing from  the  eye,  informing  every  feature,  aud  urging  the  whole 
man  onward,  right  onward  to  his  object,  —  this,  this  is  elo- 
quence ;  or  rather  it  is  something  greater  and  higher  than  all 
eloquence  ;  it  is  action,  noble,  sublime,  godlike  action. 

In  July,  177G,  the  controversy  had  passed  the  stage  of  argu- 
ment. An  appeal  had  been  made  to  force,  and  opposing  armies 
were  in  the  field.  Congress,  then,  was  to  decide  whether  tlio 
tie  which  had  so  long  bound  us  to  the  parent  State  was  to  be 
severed  at  once,  and  severed  forever.  All  the  Colonies  had 
signified  their  resolution  to  abide  by  this  decision,  and  the 
people  looked  for  it  with  the  most  intense  anxiety.  And  surely, 
fellow-citizens,  never,  never  were  men  called  to  a  more  impor- 
tant political  deliberation.  If  we  contemplate  it  from  the  point 
where  they  then  stood,  no  question  could  be  more  full  of  inter- 
est: if  we  look  at  it  now,  and  judge  of  its  importance  by  its 
effects,  it  appears  in  still  greater  magnitude. 

Let  us,  then,  bring  before  us  the  assembly  which  was  about  to 
decide  a  question  thus  big  with  the  fate  of  empire.  Let  us  open 
their  doors,  and  look  in  upon  their  deliberations.  Let  us  sur- 
vey the  anxious  and  care-worn  countenances,  let  us  hear  Iho 
firm-toned  voices,  of  this  band  of  patriots. 

Hancock  presides  over  the  solemn  sitting ;  and  one  of  those 
not  yet  prei)ared  to  pronounce  for  absolute  independence  is  on 
the  floor,  and  is  urging  his  reasons  for  dissenting  from  the  Dec- 
laration. 

"Let  us  pause  !     This  step,  once  taken,  cannot  be  retraced. 


THE  ELOQUENCE   OF   ADAMS.  257 

This  resolution,  once  passed,  will  cut  off  all  hope  of  reconcilia- 
tion. If  success  attend  the  arms  of  England,  we  shall  then  be 
no  lono^er  Colonies,  with  charters  and  with  privileges  :  these 
will  all  be  forfeited  by  this  act ;  and  we  sliall  be  in  the  condi- 
tion of  other  conquered  peoples,  at  the  mercy  of  the  conquerors. 
For  ourselves,  we  may  be  ready  to  run  the  hazard  ;  but  are  we 
ready  to  carry  the  country  to  that  length?  Is  success  so  prob- 
able as  to  justify  it?  Where  is  the  military,  where  the  naval 
power,  by  which  we  are  to  resist  the  whole  strength  of  the  arm 
of  England?  .   .   . 

"  While  we  stand  on  our  old  ground,  and  insist  on  redress  of 
grievances,  we  know  we  are  right,  and  are  not  answerable  for 
consequences.  Nothing  then  can  be  imputed  to  us.  But  if  we 
now  change  our  object,  carry  our  pretensions  further,  and  set 
up  for  absolute  independence,  we  shall  lose  the  sympathy  of 
mankind.  We  shall  no  longer  be  defending  what  we  possess, 
but  struggling  for  something  which  we  never  did  possess,  and 
which  we  have  solemnly  and  uniformly  disclaimed  all  intention 
of  pursuing,  from  the  very  outset  of  the  troubles.  Abandoning 
thus  our  old  ground  of  resistance  only  to  arbitrary  acts  of 
oppression,  the  nations  will  believe  the  whole  to  have  been  mere 
pretence,  and  they  will  look  on  us,  not  as  injured,  but  as  ambi- 
tious subjects. 

"I  shudder  before  this  responsibility.  It  will  be  on  us,  if, 
relinquishing  the  ground  on  which  we  have  stood  so  long,  and 
stood  so  safely,  we  now  proclaim  independence,  and  carry  on 
the  war  for  that  object,  while  these  cities  burn,  these  pleasant 
fields  whiten  and  bleach  with  the  bones  of  their  owners,  and 
these  streams  run  blood.  It  will  be  upon  us,  it  will  be  upon  us, 
if,  failing  to  maintain  this  unseasonable  and  ill-judged  Declara- 
tion, a  sterner  despotism,  maintained  by  military  power,  shall  be 
established  over  our  posterity,  when  we  ourselves,  given  up  by 
an  exhausted,  a  harassed,  a  misled  people,  shall  have  expiated 
our  rashness  and  atoned  for  our  presumption  on  the  scaffold." 


258  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

It  was  for  Mr.  Adams  to  reply  to  arguments  like  these.  "We 
know  his  opinious,  and  we  know  his  character.  He  would  com- 
mence with  his  accustomed  directness  and  earnestness. 

"Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I  give  my  hand 
and  my  heart  to  this  vote.  It  is  true  indec  d  that  in  the  begin- 
ning we  aimed  not  at  independence.  But  there's  a  Divinit}^ 
which  shapes  our  ends.  The  injustice  of  England  has  driven 
us  to  arms  ;  and,  blinded  to  her  own  interest  for  our  good,  she 
has  obstinately  persisted,  till  independence  is  now  within  our 
grasp.  "VVe  have  but  to  reach  forth  to  it,  and  it  is  ours.  AYhy 
then  should  we  defer  the  Declaration  ?  Is  any  man  so  weak  as 
now  to  hope  for  a  reconciliation  with  England,  which  shall  leave 
either  safety  to  the  country  and  its  liberties,  or  safety  to  his  life 
and  his  own  honor?  Are  not  you.  Sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair,  is 
not  he,  our  venerable  colleague  near  you,  are  jou  not  both  al- 
ready the  proscribed  and  predestined  objects  of  punishment  and 
of  vengeance  ?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal  clemency,  what 
are  you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the  power  of  England  remains, 
but  outlaws  ? 

"  If  we  postpone  independence,  do  we  mean  to  carry  on,  or  to 
give  up,  the  war?  Do  we  mean  to  submit  to  the  measures  of 
Parliament,  Boston-Port  Bill  and  all  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit, 
and  consent  that  we  ourselves  shall  be  ground  to  powder,  and 
our  country  and  its  rights  trodden  down  in  the  dust?  I  know  we 
do  not  mean  to  submit.  "We  never  shall  submit.  Do  we  mean 
to  violate  that  most  solemn  obligation  ever  entered  into  by  men, 
that  plighting,  before  God,  of  our  sacred  honor  to  Washington, 
when,  putting  him  forth  to  injur  the  dangers  of  war,  :is  well  as 
the  political  hazards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to 
him,  in  every  extremity,  with  our  fortunes  and  our  lives?  I 
know  there  is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see  a  gen- 
eral conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an  earthquake  sink  it, 
than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted  faith  fall  to  tlie  ground. 
For  myself,  having,  twelve  mouths  ago,  in  this  place,  moved 


THE  ELOQUENCE  OF  ADAMS.  259 

you,  that  George  Washington  be  appointed  commander  of  the 
forces  raised,  or  to  be  raised,  for  defence  of  American  liberty, 
may  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning,  and  my  tongue  cleave 
to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if  I  hesitate  or  waver  in  the  support 
I  give  him.  .  .  . 

"  Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  but  I  see,  I 
see  clearly,  through  this  day's  business.  You  and  I  indeed  may 
rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time  when  this  Declaration 
shall  be  made  good.  We  may  die  ;  die,  colonists  ;  die,  slaves  ; 
die,  it  may  be,  ignominiously  and  on  the  scaffold.  Be  it  so ; 
be  it  so  !  If  it  be  the  pleasure  of  Heaven  that  my  country  shall 
require  the  poor  offering  of  my  life,  the  victim  shall  be  ready  at 
the  appointed  hour  of  sacrifice,  come  when  that  hour  may. 
But  while  I  do  live,  let  me  have  a  country,  or  at  least  the  hope 
of  a  country,  and  tliat  a  free  country. 

"  But,  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be  assured,  that 
this  Declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  and  it  may 
cost  blood  ;  but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will  richly  compensate  for 
both.  Through  the  thick  gloom  of  the  present,  I  see  the  bright- 
ness of  the  future,  as  the  sun  in  heaven.  We  shall  make  this 
a  glorious,  an  immortal  day.  When  we  are  in  our  graves,  our 
children  will  honor  it.  They  will  celebrate  it  with  thanksgiving, 
with  festivity,  with  bonfires,  and  illuminations.  On  its  annual 
return  they  will  shed  tears,  copious,  gushing  tears,  not  of  sub- 
jection and  slavery,  not  of  agony  and  distress,  but  of  exulta- 
tion, of  gratitude,  and  of  joy.  Sir,  before  God,  I  believe  the 
bour  is  come.  My  judgment  approves  this  measure,  and  my 
whole  heart  is  in  it.  All  that  I  have,  and  all  that  I  am,  and  all 
that  I  hope,  in  this  life,  I  am  now  ready  here  to  stake  upon  it ; 
and  I  leave  off,  as  I  began,  that  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I 
am  for  the  Declaration.  It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and  by  the 
blessing  of  God  it  shall  be  my  dying  sentiment,  Independence 
noto,  and  Independence  forever."  WebsUr. 


260  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 


THE  BRAVE. 

I    I  OW  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
*    *  ■    With  all  their  country's  wishes  blest? 

When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 

Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 

It  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 

Than  blooming  Fancy  ever  trod. 

By  Eairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 
There  Honor  walks,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  deck  the  tui'f  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  a  while  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 


Collins, 


THE  rBTTEEVIEWER. 
[Enter  Beporter  of  the  Daily  Thunderstorm.'] 

"TNTEB VIEWER.  Hoping  it's  no  harm,  I've  come  to  interview 
you. 

Author.    Come  to  what? 

Int.    Interview  you. 

A.  Ah,  I  see.  Yes  —  yes.  Um.  Yes  —  yes.  I  say,  —  how  do 
you  spell  it? 

Int.     Spell  what? 

A.    Interview. 

Int.     Oh,  my  goodness !     'Wlaat  do  you  want  to  spell  it  for? 

A.    I  don't  want  to  spell  it ;  I  want  to  see  what  it  means. 

Int.  Well,  this  is  astonishing,  I  must  say.  I  can  tell  you  what  it 
means,  if  you  —  if  you  — 

A.     Oh,  all  ritclit!     That  will  answer,  and  much  obliged  to  you. 

Int.     I-n  —  in,  t-e-r  —  ter,  inter. 

A,    Then  you  spell  it  with  an  I? 

Int.     Wliy  certainly. 

A.     Oh,  tliat  is  wliat  took  xne  so  long  I 

Int.    Why,  my  dear  sir,  what  did  you  propose  to  spell  it  with? 

A.    Well,  I  —  I  —  I  —  hardly  know.     I  had  the  unabridged ;  93aA 


THE   INTEVIEWER.  261 

I  Was  ciphering  around  in  tlie  back  end,  hoping  I  might  tree  her  among 
the  pictures.     But  it's  a  very  old  edition. 

Int.  Why,  ray  friend,  they  would  not  have  a  picture  of  it,  even 
the  latest  e —  My  dear  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  mean  no  harm  in  the 
Avorld;  but  you  do  not  look  as  —  as  intelligent  as  I  had  expected  you 
would.     No  harm,  —  I  mean  no  harm  at  all. 

A.  Oh,  don't  mention  it!  It  has  often  been  said,  and  J)y  people 
who  would  not  flatter,  and  who  could  have  no  inducement  to  flatter, 
that  I  am  quite  remarkable  in  that  way.  Yes  —  yes  —  they  always 
speak  of  it  with  rapture. 

ltd.  I  can  easily  imagine  it.  But  about  this  interview.  You 
know  it  is  the  custom  now  to  interview  any  man  who  has  become 
notorious. 

A.  Indeed?  I  had  not  heard  of  it  before.  It  must  be  very  inter- 
esting.    What  do  you  do  it  with? 

Int.  Ah,  well — well  —  well  —  this  is  disheartening.  It  ought 
to  be  done  with  a  club,  in  some  cases ;  but  customarily  it  consists  in 
the  interviewer  asking  questions,  and  the  interviewed  answering  them. 
It  is  all  the  rage  now.  Will  you  let  me  ask  you  certain  questions 
calculated  to  bring  out  the  salient  points  of  your  public  and  private 
history? 

A.  Oh,  with  pleasure,  —  with  pleasure !  I  have  a  very  bad  mem- 
ory, but  I  hope  that  you  will  not  mind  that.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  an 
irregular  memory,  singularly  irregular.  Sometimes  it  goes  at  a  gallop, 
and  then  again  it  will  be  as  much  as  a  fortnight  passing  a  given  point. 
This  is  a  great  grief  to  me. 

Int.     Oh,  it  is  no  matter,  so  you  will  try  to  do  the  best  you  can! 

A.     I  will  put  my  whole  mind  upon  it. 

Int.     Thanks.     Are  you  ready  to  begin? 

A.     Ready. 

Int.    How  old  are  you? 

A.    Nineteen  in  June. 

Int.  Indeed,  I  would  have  taken  you  to  be  thlrty-flve  or  six.  Where 
were  you  bom? 

A.     In  Missouri. 

Int.    When  did  you  begin  to  write? 

A.    In  1836. 

Int.    Why,  how  could  that  be,  if  you  are  only  nineteen  now? 

A.     I  don't  know.     It  does  seem  curious,  somehow. 

Int.    It  does  indeed.     What  was  the  date  of  your  birth? 


262  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

A.    Monday,  Oct.  31,  1693. 

Int.  "What!  Impossible!  That  would  make  you  a  hundred  and 
eighty  years  old.     How  do  you  account  for  that? 

A.    I  don't  account  for  it  at  all. 

Int.  But  you  said  at  first  you  were  only  nineteen;  and  now, 
you  make  yourself  out  to  be  one  hundred  and  eighty.  It  is  an  awful 
discrepancy. 

A.  Why,  have  you  noticed  that?  [_Shaking  hands.!  Many  a  time 
it  has  seemed  to  me  like  a  discrepancy;  but  somehow  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mind.     How  quick  you  notice  a  thing? 

Int.  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,  as  far  as  it  goes.  Had  you, 
or  have  you,  any  brothers  or  sisters? 

A.    Eh?    I  — I — I  —  I  think  so  ~  yes  —  but  I  don't  remember. 

Int.    Well,  that  is  the  most  extraordinary  statement  I  ever  heard. 

A.    Why,  what  makes  you  think  that ! 

Int.  How  could  I  think  otherwise?  Why,  look  here.  Who  is 
this  a  picture  of  on  the  wall?    Is  n't  that  a  brother  of  yours? 

A.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes.  Now  you  remind  me  of  it,  that  was  a 
brother  of  mine.  That 's  William,  —  Bill  we  called  him.  Poor  old 
Bill. 

Int.     Why.  is  he  dead,  then? 

A.  Ah,  well  I  suppose  so.  Wo  could  never  tell.  There  was  a 
gre&t  mystery  about  it. 

Int.     That  is  sad,  very  sad.     He  disappeared  then? 

A.     Well,  yes,  in  a  sort  of  a  general  way.     We  buried  him. 

Int.  Buried  him!  Buried  him  without  knowing  whether  he  was 
dead  or  not? 

A.    Oh,  no!    He  was  dead  enough. 

Int.  Well,  I  confess  that  I  can't  understand  this.  If  you  buried 
him,  — and  you  knew  he  was  dead  — 

A.    No,  no.     We  only  thought  he  was. 

Lit.    Oh,  I  see!    He  came  to  life  again? 

A.    No,  he  did  n't. 

Int.  Well,  I  never  heard  anything  like  this.  Somebody  was  dead. 
Somebody  was  buried.     Now,  where  was  the  mystery? 

A.  Ah,  that's  just  it.  That's  It  exactly.  You  see  we  were 
twins,  —  defunct  and  I:  and  we  got  mixed  in  the  bath-tub  when  we 
were  only  two  weeks  old,  and  one  of  us  was  drowned.  But  we  didn't 
kno'V  which.     Some  think  it  was  Bill;  some  think  it  was  me. 

Int.    Well,  that  ia  remarkable.     What  do  you  think? 


THE   BOYS.  268 

A,  Goodness  knows.  I  would  give  whole  worlds  to  know.  This 
Bolcmn,  this  awful  ni3'stery  has  cast  a  gloom  over  my  whole  life.  But 
I  will  tell  you  a  secret  now,  which  I  never  have  revealed  to  any  crea- 
ture before.  One  of  us  had  a  peculiar  mark,  a  large  mole  on  the  back 
of  his  left  hand ;  that  was  me.     That  was  the  child  that  was  drowned. 

Int.  Very  well ;  then  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any  mystery  about 
It,  after  all. 

A.  You  don't?  Well,  I  do.  Anyway,  I  don't  see  how  they  could 
ever  have  been  such  a  blundering  lot  as  to  go  and  bury  tlic  wrong  child. 
But  'sh ;  don't  mention  it  where  the  family  can  hear  of  it.  Heaven 
knows  they  have  heartbreaking  troubles  enough  witliout  adding  this. 

Arranged  a«  a  Dialogue, /rorn  Mark  Twain, 


THE  BOYS. 


HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  almanac's  cheat  and  tlie  catalogue's  spite ! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar ;  we  're  twenty  to-night ! 

We  're  twenty !    We  're  twenty !    Who  says  we  are  more? 
He 's  tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes  I  —  show  him  the  door ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  twenty?"  — Yes  !  ichite  if  we  please ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there 's  nothing  can  freeze  I 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?    Excuse  the  mistake ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed, 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We've  a  trick,  —  Ave  young  fellows,  —  you  may  have  been  told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old ; 
That  boy  we  call  '  Doctor,"  and  this,  we  call  "  Judge  " . 
It's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —of  course  it's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "  Speaker,"  the  one  on  the  right; 

"  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night? 

That's  our  "Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we  chafl"; 

There 's  the  "  Reverend  "  —  what 's  his  name !  —  don't  make  me  laugh 

That  boy  witli  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 


2G6  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was  true  ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in,  —  a  good  joke  it  was,  too* 

There 's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  bram, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire. 

We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now  he's  the  "  Squire." 

And  there 's  a  nice  youngstet  of  excellent  pith ; 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "My  country,"  "  of  thee'T 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing?    You  think  he 's  all  fun; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call. 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  all. 

Yes,  we're  boys,  — always  playing  with  tongue  or  with  pen-, 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay. 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away? 

Then  here 's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  Maj^ ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  Thy  children,  the  boys ! 

Eolmet, 


BENEDICK  AND  HIS  TRIENDS. 

I. 

TiSNEDICK.    I  do  much  wonder,  that  one  man,  seeing  how  much 

another  man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviors  to  love,  will, 

>fter  he  hatli  laughed  at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the  argu« 

ment  of  his  own  scorn,  by  falling  in  love  :   and  such  a  man  is  Claudio. 

I  have  known  when  there  was  no  music  with  liim  but  the  drum  and  fife; 

and  now  had  he  rather  hear  tlie  tabor  and  the  pipe.     I  have  known  when 

he  would  have  walked  ten  mile  afoot  to  see  a  good  armor:   and  now 

will  he  lie  ten  niglits  awake,  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet. 

He  was  wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest  man 

and  a  soldier;   and  now  Is  he  turned  orthographer ;  his  words  are  a 

very  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many  strange  dishes.     May  I  be  90 


BENEDICK  AND   HIS   FRIENDS.  266 

•onverted,  and  see  with  these  eyes?  I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  not :  I  will 
not  be  sworn,  but  Love  may  transform  me  to  an  oj'ster;  but  I'll  take 
my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have  made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me 
such  a  fool.  One  woman  is  fair, —  yet  I  am  well;  another  is  wise, —  yet 
I  am  well;  another  virtuous,  — yet  I  am  well :  but  till  all  graces  be  in 
one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace.  Rich  she  shall 
be,  that's  certain;  wise,  or  I'll  none;  virtuous,  or  I'll  never  cheapen 
her ;  fair,  or  I  'II  never  look  on  her ;  mild,  or  come  not  near  me ;  noble, 
or  not  I  for  an  angel;  of  good  discourse,  an  excellent  musician,  and 
her  hair  shall  be  of  what  color  it  please  Grod.  Ha!  the  prince  and 
monsieur  Love !    I  will  hide  me  in  the  arbor.  [  Withdraws. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Leonato,  and  Cl audio. 

Don  Pedro.     By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Benedick  (aside).  An  he  had  been  a  dog,  that  should  have  howled 
thus,  they  would  have  hanged  liim ;  and  I  pray  God  his  bad  voice  bode 
no  mischief!  I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the  night-raven,  come  what 
plague  could  have  come  after  it. 

Z>.  Pe.     See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself? 

Clau.    Oh,  very  well,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  Come  hither,  Leonato.  "Wliat  was  it  you  told  me  of  to-day? 
that  your  niece  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  Signior  Benedick? 

Clau.  Oh,  ay :  —  stalk  on,  stalk  on  :  the  fowl  sits.  (Aside  to  Pedro.) 
I  did  never  think  tliat  lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 

Leo.  No,  nor  I  neither;  but  most  wonderful  that  she  should  so  dote 
on  Signior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath  in  all  outward  behaviors  seemed 
ever  to  abhor. 

Ben.    Is't  possible?     Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner?     (Aside.) 

Leo.  By  ray  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think  of  it;  but 
that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged  affection,  —  it  is  past  the  infinite  of 
thought. 

D.  Pe.     May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Clau.     Faith,  like  enough. 

Leo.  O,  counterfeit!  There  never  was  counterfeit  of  passion 
came  so  near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she  discovers  it. 

D.  Pe.    "Why,  what  effect  of  passion  shows  she? 

Clau.    Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will  bite.     (Aside.) 

Leo.  What  effects,  my  lord?  She  will  sit  you  —  You  heard  my 
daughter  tell  you  how. 

Clau.    She  did,  indeed. 


266  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

D.  Pe.  How,  how,  I  pray  you?  You  amaze  me:  I  would  hare 
thought  her  spirit  had  been  invincible  against  all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leo.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  ray  lord;  especially  against 
Benedick. 

Ben  (aside).  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that  the  white-bearded 
fellow  speaks  it;  knavery  cannot,  sure  hide  itself  in  sucli  reverence. 

Clau     He  hath  ta"en  the  infection  :  hold  it  up.     (Aside) 

D.  Pe.     Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to  Benedick? 

Leo.     No;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that's  her  torment. 

Clau.  Tis  true,  indeed;  so  your  daughter  says.  "Shall  I,"  says 
she,  "  that  have  so  oft  encountered  him  with  scorn,  write  to  him  that 
I  love  him?" 

Leo.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to  write  to  him :  for 
she'll  be  up  twenty  times  a  night ;  and  there  will  she  sit  in  her  smock, 
till  she  have  writ  a  sheet  of  paper  :  —  my  daughter  tells  us  all. 

Clau.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps,  sobs,  beats  her 
heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  curses  ;  —  "  O  sweet  Benedick !  God  give 
me  patience ! " 

Leo.     She  doth  indeed  ;  my  daughter  says  so. 

Z>.  Pe.  It  were  good,  that  Benedick  knew  of  it  by  some  other,  if 
she  will  not  discover  it. 

Clan.  To  what  end?  He  would  but  make  a  sport  of  it,  and  tor- 
ment the  poor  lady  worse. 

D.  Pe.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang  him.  She 's  an  excel- 
lent sweet  lady ;  and,  out  of  all  suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Clau.     And  slie  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pe.     In  everything,  l)Ut  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leo.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  just  cause,  being  her  uncle  and 
her  guardian. 

D.  Pe.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  tliis  dotage  on  me :  I  would  have 
daffed  all  other  respects,  and  made  her  half  myself.  I  pray  you,  tell 
Benedick  of  it,  and  hear  what  lie  will  say. 

Leo.    Were  it  good,  tliiak  you? 

Ulan.  Hero  tliiiiks  surely  she  will  die:  for  she  says,  she  will  die  if 
he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will  die  ere  she  makes  her  love  known ;  and 
she  will  die  if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she  will  'bate  one  breath  of  her 
accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pe.  She  doth  well:  if  slie  should  make  tender  of  her  love,  'tis 
very  p'^siblo  he  '11  scorn  it;  for  the  man,  as  you  all  know,  hath  a  con- 


BENEDICK   AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  267 

lemptrble  spirit.  Well,  I  cm  sorry  for  j-our  niece.  Shall  we  go  seek 
Benedick,  and  tell  him  of  her  love? 

Clau.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord;  let  her  wear  It  oat  with  good 
counsel. 

Leo.     Nay,  that's  Impossible;  she  may  wear  her  heart  out  first. 

D.  Pe.  "Well,  we  will  hear  farther  of  it  by  your  daughter;  let  it 
cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick  well ;  and  I  could  wisli  he  would  mod- 
estly examine  himself,  to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy  to  have  so  good 
a  lady. 

Leo.     My  lord,  will  you  walk?  dinner  is  ready. 

Clau.  (aside).  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I  will  neva. 
trust  my  expectation. 

D.  Pe.    Let  us  send  her  to  call  him  in  to  dinner. 

Exeunt  Dox  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Leoxato. 

Ben.  {advancing).  This  can  be  no  trick  :  the  conference  was  sadly 
borne.  —  They  have  the  truth  of  this  from  Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the 
lady :  It  seems,  her  affections  have  their  full  bent.  Love  me !  why,  It 
must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  censured :  they  say,  I  will  bear 
myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive  the  love  come  from  her;  they  say  too, 
that  she  will  rather  die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection.  — I  did  never 
think  to  marry :  — I  must  not  seem  proud.  —  Happy  are  they  that  hear 
their  detractions,  and  can  put  them  to  mending.  They  say,  tne  lady  Is 
fair,  —  't  is  a  truth,  I  can  bear  them  witness ;  and  virtuous,  —  't  is  so,  I 
cannot  reprove  it ;  and  wise,  but  for  loving  me.  —  By  my  troth,  it  is  no 
addition  to  her  wit ;  —  nor  no  groat  argument  of  her  folly,  for  I  will  be 
horribly  in  love  with  her.  I  may  chance  have  some  odd  quirks  and 
remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me,  because  I  have  railed  so  long  against 
marriage.  But  doth  not  the  appetite  alter?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in 
his  youth,  that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  age.  Shall  quips,  and  sentences, 
and  these  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,  awe  a  man  from  the  career  of  his 
humor?  No;  the  world  must  be  peopled.  When  I  said,  I  would  die 
a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married.  Here 
comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day,  she 's  a  fair  lady :  I  do  spy  some  marks 
of  love  in  her. 

Beatrice  {entering).  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in 
to  dinner. 

Ben.    Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Bea.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than  you  take  pains  to 
thank  me :  if  It  bad  been  painful,  I  would  not  have  come. 


268  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Ben.    You  Cake  pleasure  then  in  the  message? 

Sea.  Tea,  just  so  much  as  j^ou  may  take  upon  a  knife's  point,  and 
choke  a  daw  withaL    You  have  no  stomach,  signior ;  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 

Ben.  Ha!  "  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  to  dinner." 
—  There 's  a  double  meaning  in  that.  "  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those 
thanks,  than  you  took  pains  to  thank  me."  —  That 's  as  much  as  to  say, 
Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you  is  as  easy  as  thanks.  If  I  do  not  take 
pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain ;  if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  Jew.  I  will  go 
get  her  picture.  IBxit. 

n. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  Lkonato,  and  Bexedick. 

D.  Pe.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  consummate,  and  then  I  go 
toward  Arragon. 

Clau.    I  '11  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you  '11  vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pe.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the  new  gloss  of  your 
marriage,  as  to  show  a  child  his  new  coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it. 
I  will  only  be  bold  with  Benedick  for  his  company ;  for,  from  the  crown 
of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all  mirth :  he  hath  twice  or 
thrice  cut  Cupid's  bowstring,  and  the  little  hangman  dare  not  shoot  at 
him ;  he  hath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue  is  the  clapper; 
for  what  his  heart  thinks,  his  tongue  speaks. 

Ben.    Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Leo.     So  say  I ;  methiuks,  you  are  sadder. 

Clau.    I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

D.  Pe.  Hang  him,  truant !  there 's  no  true  drop  of  blood  In  him,  to 
be  truly  touched  with  love :  if  he  be  sad,  he  wants  money. 

Ben.    I  have  the  toothache. 

D.  Pe.     Draw  it. 

Ben.     Ilang  it! 

Clau.     You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  afterwards. 

D.  Pe.     What!  sigh  for  the  toothache? 

Ben.     Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief  but  he  that  has  It. 

Clau     Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pe.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  In  him,  unless  It  be  a  fancy 
that  he  hath  to  strange  disguises;  as,  to  be  a  Dutchman  to-day,  a 
Frenchman  to-morrow;  or  in  the  shape  of  two  countries  at  once,  as,  a 
German  from  the  waist  downward,  all  slops,  and  a  Spaniard  from  the 
hip  upward,  no  doublet. 


THE  TITMOUSE.  269 

Clau.    If  h«  be  not  In  love  with  some  woman,  there  Is  no  DeiJcTing 
•Id  signs :  he  brushes  his  hat  o'  mornings ;  what  should  that  bode? 

D.  Pe.     Hath  any  man  seen  hira  at  the  barber's? 

CJatt.     No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen  with  him;  and  the 
old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath  ah-eady  stuffed  tennis-balls. 

Leo.    Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did  by  the  loss  of  a  beard. 

D.  Pe.    Nay,  he  rubs  himself  with  civet :  can  you  smell  hira  out  by 
that? 

Clau.     That's  as  much  as  to  say,  the  sweet  youth 's  In  love. 

D.  Pe.     The  greatest  note  of  it  Is  his  melancholy. 

Clau.     And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face? 

I).  Pe.     Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which,  I  hear  what  they 
say  of  him. 

Clau.     Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit;  which  is  now  crept  into  a  lute- 
string, and  now  governed  by  stops. 

D.  Pe.     Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  hira.     Conclude,  conclude, 
he  Is  In  love. 

Clau.    Nay,  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pe.    That  would  I  know  too :  I  warrant,  one  that  knows  him  not. 

Clau.    Yes,  and  his  111  conditions;  and,  in  despite  of  all,  dies  for  hira. 

D.  Pe.     She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  upwards. 

Ben.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  tootliache.  —  Old  signior,  walk 
aside  with  me :  I  have  studied  eight  or  nine  wise  words  to  speaJi  to 
you,  which  these  hobby-horses  must  not  hear.  lExeunt  Bex.  and  Lko. 
D.  Pe.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about  Beatrice. 
Clatc.  'Tisevenso.  Hero  and  Margaret  have  by  this  played  their 
parts  with  Beatrice ;  and  then  the  two  bears  v/ill  not  bite  one  another 
When  they  meet. 

Shaketpeare. 


THE   TITMOUSE. 


"VT'OU  shall  not  be  overbold 

-*-    When  you  deal  with  arctic  cold, 
As  late  I  found  my  lukewarm  blood 
Chilled  wading  in  the  snow-choked  wood. 
How  should  I  fight?  my  focman  fine 
Has  million  arras  to  one  of  mine : 
East,  west,  for  aid  I  looked  in  vain, 
East,  west,  north,  south,  are  his  domain. 
Miles  off,  three  dangerous  miles,  is  home ; 
Most  borrow  his  winds  who  there  would  come. 


270  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Up  and  away  for  life !  be  fleet ! 

The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 

Sings  in  my  ears,  my  hands  are  stones, 

Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 

Tugs  at  the  heart-strings,  numbs  the  sense. 

And  hems  in  life  with  narrowing  fence. 

Well,  in  this  broad  bed  lie  and  sleep, 

The  punctual  stars  Avill  vigil  keep, 

Embalmed  by  purifying  cold, 

The  winds  shall  sing  their  dead-march  old, 

The  snow  is  no  ignoble  shroud, 

The  moon  thy  mourner,  and  the  cloud. 

Softly,  —  but  this  way  fate  was  pointing, 
'T  was  coming  fast  to  such  anointing, 
When  piped  a  tiny  voice  hard  by, 
Gay  and  polite,  a  cheerful  cry, 
Chic-chic-a-dee-dee  I  saucy  note 
Out  of  sound  heart  and  merry  throat. 
As  if  it  said,  "  Good  day,  good  sir! 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger! 
Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places. 
Where  January  brings  few  faces." 

This  poet,  though  he  live  apart, 
Moved  by  his  hospitable  heart. 
Sped,  when  I  passed  his  sylvan  fort, 
To  do  the  honors  of  his  court, 
As  fits  a  feathered  lord  of  land^ 
Flew  near,  with  soft  wing  grazed  my  hand, 
Hopped  on  the  bough,  then,  darting  low, 
Prints  his  small  impress  on  the  snow, 
Shows  feats  of  his  gymnastic  play, 
Head  downward,  clinging  to  the  spray. 

Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death ; 
This  scrap  of  valor  just  for  play 
Fronts  the  north-wind  in  waistcoat  gray. 
As  If  to  slianic  my  weak  behavior; 
I  greeted  loud  my  little  savior : 


THE  TITMOUSE.  271 


"You  pet !  what  dost  here?  and  what  for? 

In  these  woods,  thy  small  Labrador, 

At  this  pinch,  wee  San  Salvador! 

What  fire  burns  in  that  little  chest 

So  frolic,  stout,  and  sclf-possest? 

Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine ; 

Ashes  and  jet  all  hues  outshine. 

"Why  are  not  diamonds  black  and  gray, 

To  ape  thy  dare-devil  array? 

And  I  affirm,  the  spacious  North 

Exists  to  draw  thy  virtue  forth. 

I  think  no  virtue  goes  with  size; 

The  reason  of  all  cowardice 

Is,  that  men  are  overgrown. 

And,  to  be  valiant,  must  come  down 

To  the  titmouse  dimension." 

'T  is  good-will  makes  intelligence, 
And  I  began  to  catch  the  sense 
Of  my  bird's  song:  "  Live  out  of  doors 
In  the  great  woods,  on  prairie  floors. 
I  dine  in  the  sun ;  when  he  sinks  in  the  sea, 
I  too  liave  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree; 
And  I  like  less  when  Summer  beats 
With  stifling  beams  on  these  retreats, 
Than  noontide  twilights  wliich  snow  makes 
With  tempest  of  the  blinding  flakes. 
For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within. 
Can  arm  impregnably  the  skin ; 
And  polar  frost  my  frame  defied, 
Made  of  the  air  that  blows  outside." 

Witli  glad  remembrance  of  my  debt, 
I  homeward  turn ;  farewell,  my  pet ! 
When  here  again  th^f  pilgrim  comes. 
He  shall  bring  store  of  seeds  and  crumbs. 
Doubt  not,  so  long  as  earth  has  bread, 
Thou  first  and  foremost  shalt  be  fed; 
The  Providence  that  is  most  large 
Takes  hearts  like  thine  in  special  charge, 


272  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Helps  who  for  their  own  need  are  strong. 
And  the  sky  dotes  on  cheerful  song. 
Henceforth  I  prize  thy  wiry  chant 
O'er  all  that  mass  and  minster  vaunt ; 
For  men  mis-hear  thy  call  in  spring. 
As  't  would  accost  some  frivolous  wing, 
Crying  out  of  the  hazel  copse,  Phe-he  ! 
And,  in  winter,  Chic-a-dee-dee  ! 
I  think  old  Csesar  must  have  heard 
In  northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 
And,  echoed  in  frosty  wold, 
Boi'rowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 
And  I  will  write  our  annals  new. 
And  thank  thee  for  a  better  clew, 
I,  who  dreamed  not  when  I  came  here 
To  find  the  antidote  of  fear, 
Nor  hear  thee  say  in  Roman  key, 
PcBon  !  Veni,  vidi,  vici. 


Emerson, 


A  BILL  FEOM  THE  TOWN  PUMP. 

'ATTOON  by  the  north  clock  ! 

-^^  Noon  by  the  east !  High  noon,  too,  by  these  hot  sun- 
beams which  fall  scarcely  aslope  upon  my  head,  and  almost  make 
the  water  bubble  and  smoke  in  the  trough  under  my  nose.  Truly, 
we  public  characters  have  a  tough  time  of  it !  And  among  all 
the  town  officers,  chosen  at  March  meeting,  where  is  he  that 
sustains  for  a  single  moment  the  burden  of  such  manifold  duties 
as  are  imposed  in  perpetuity  upon  the  Town  Pump? 

To  speak  within  bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of  the  munici- 
pality, and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admirable  pattern  to  my 
brother  officers,  by  the  cool,  steady,  upright,  downright,  and 
impartial  discharge  of  ray  business  and  the  constancy  with  which 
I  stand  at  my  i)ost.  Summer  or  winter  nobody  seeks  me  in 
vain  :  for  all  day  long  I  am  seen  at  the  busiest  corner,  just 
above  the  market,  stretching  out  my  arms  to  rich  and  poor 


A  RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP.  273 

alike  ;  and  at  night  I  hold  a  lantern  over  my  head,  both  to  show 
where  I  am,  and  to  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide  I  am  cupbearer  to  the  parched  popu- 
lace, for  whose  benefit  an  iron  goblet  is  chained  to  ray  waist. 
Like  a  dram-seller  on  the  mall  at  a  muster  day,  I  cry  aloud  to 
all,  in  ray  plainest  accents  and  at  the  tip-top  of  my  voice. 
"  Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the  good  liquor  !  "Walk  up  ! 
walk  up,  gentlemen  !  walk  up  !  walk  up  !  Here  is  the  superior 
stuff!  Here  is  the  unadulterated  ale  of  P'atherAdam!  better 
than  cognac,  Jamaica,  strong  beer,  or  wine  at  any  price  :  here  it 
is  by  the  hogshead  or  the  single  glass,  and  not  a  cent  to  pay. 
Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up  and  help  yourselves  !  " 

It  were  a  pity  if  all  this  outcry  should  bring  no  customers. 

Here  they  come.  A  hot  day,  gentlemen.  Quaff  and  away 
again,  so  as  to  keep  3'ourselvcs  in  a  nice  cool  sweat.  You,  my 
friend,  will  need  another  cupful,  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your 
throat,  if  it  be  as  thick  tliere  as  it  is  on  your  cowhide  shoes,  I 
see  that  you  have  trudged  half  a  score  of  miles  to-day,  and,  like 
a  wise  man,  have  passed  by  the  taverns,  and  stopped  at  the 
running  brooks  and  well  curbs.  Otherwise,  betwixt  heat  within 
and  fire  without,  3'ou  would  have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  or 
melted  down  to  nothing  at  all,  in  the  fashion  of  a  jelly-fish. 

Drink  and  make  room  for  that  other  fellow,  who  seeks  my 
aid  to  quench  the  fiery  fever  of  last  night's  potations  which  he 
drained  from  no  cup  of  mine. 

Welcome,  most  rubicund  sir !  You  and  I  have  been  great 
strangers  hitherto :  nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will  my  nose  be 
anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  the  fumes  of  your  breath  be  a 
little  less  potent. 

Mercy  on  you,  man  !  the  water  absolutely  hisses  down  your 
red  gullet,  and  is  converted  quite  into  steam,  in  the  miniature 
Tophet  which  you  mistake  for  a  stomach.  Fill  again,  and  tell 
me  on  the  word  of  an  honest  toper,  did  you  ever  in  cellar, 
tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a  dram-shop,  spend  the  price  of  your 


274  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

children's  food  for  a  swig  half  so  delicious  ?  Now  for  the  first 
time  these  ten  3'ears  you  know  the  flavor  of  good  cold  watei. 
Good  by,  and  whenever  you  are  thirsty,  remember  that  I  keep 
a  constant  supply  at  the  old  stand. 

Who  next?  O,  m}'  little  friend,  you  are  let  loose  from  school, 
and  come  hither  to  scrub  your  blooming  face,  and  drown  the 
memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferrule,  and  other  school-l'oy 
troubles,  in  a  draught  from  the  Town  Pump.  Take  it,  pure  as 
the  current  of  your  young  life  ;  take  it,  and  may  your  heart  and 
tongue  never  thirst  with  a  fiercer  thirst  than  now. 

There,  my  dear  child,  put  down  the  cup  and  yield  your  place 
to  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads  so  tenderly  over  the  paving- 
stones,  that  I  suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them. 

What !  he  limps  by  without  so  much  as  thanking  me,  as 
if  my  hospitable  offers  were  meant  only  for  people  who  have 
no  wine  cellars.  W^ll,  well,  sir,  no  harm  done  I  hope  !  Go 
draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decanter,  but  when  your  great  toe  shall 
set  you  a-roaring  it  will  be  no  affair  of  mine.  If  gentlemen 
love  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the  gout  it  is  all  one  to  the  Town 
Pump. 

This  thirsty  dog  with  his  red  tongue  lolling  out  docs  not  scorn 
my  hospitality,  but  stands  on  his  hind  legs  and  laps  eagerly  out 
df  the  trough.  See  how  lightly  he  capers  away  again  !  Jouler, 
did  your  worship  ever  have  the  gout? 

Ahem  !  dry  work  this  speechifjMng,  especially  to  all  unprac- 
tised orators.  I  never  conceived,  till  now,  what  toil  the  temper- 
ance lecturer  undergoes  for  my  sake.  Do,  some  kind  Christian, 
pump  a  stroke  or  two,  just  to  wet  mv  whistle.  Thank  you,  sir. 
My  dear  hearers,  when  the  world  shall  liave  been  regenerated 
through  my  instrumentality,  yon  will  collect  your  useless  vats 
and  liquor  casks  into  one  great  pile,  and  make  a  bonfire  in 
honor  of  the  Town  Pump  !  And  when  I  shall  liave  decayed  like 
my  predecessors,  let  a  marble  fountain  richly  sculptured  take 
my  place  upon  this  spot.     Such  monuments  should  bo  erected 


THE  BARD.  275 

everywhere  and  inscribed  with  the  distinguished  champions  of 
their  cause. 

One  o'clock !  Nay  then,  if  the  dinner-bell  begins  to  ring  I 
may  as  well  hold  my  peace  ;  but  here  comes  a  pretty  girl  of  my 
acquaintance,  with  a  large  stone  pitcher  for  me  to  fill.  May 
she  draw  a  husband  while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel  did  of 
old.  Hold  out  your  pitcher,  my  dear.  There  !  it  is  full  to  the 
brim.  Now  run  home,  peeping  nt  3'our  own  image  in  the  pitchef 
as  you  go,  and  forget  not  in  a  glass  of  my  own  liquor  to  drink 
success  to  the  Town  Pump.  Hawtkome. 


THE   BABD. 


""T3UIN  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 

-■-  ^     Confusion  on  tliy  banners  wait ! 
Tho*  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing, 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears !  " 
—  Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array :  — 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance ; 
"  To  arms !  "  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch'd  his  quivering  lance. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe. 

With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood; 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Streara'd  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air,) 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre  : 
"  Hark,  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert-cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath ! 


276  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

O'er  thee,  O  King !  their  hundred  arms  they  wave. 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hush'd  the  stormy  main : 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Hinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie, 

Smear'd  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale : 

Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 
The  famish'd  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries, — 
No  more  I  weep  ;  they  do  not  sleep ; 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit ;  they  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof. 

The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race : 
Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year  and  mark  the  night 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  thro'  Berkley's  roof  that  riug, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king! 
She-wolf  of  France,  with  imrcleuting  fangs, 

Tliat  toar'st  tlic  bowels  of  thy  manghHl  mate, 
From  ilioc  be  born,  who  o'er  tliy  couutrj'  hangs 

The  scourge  of  Heaven  I    What  terrors  round  him  wait  J 
Amazement  in  his  van,  witli  Fliglit  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 


THE  BARD.  877 

«*  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

I.1OW  on  his  funeral  coucli  he  lies ! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born? 
—  Gone  to  salute  the  rising  mom. 
Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  Vessel  goes  : 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm : 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  "Whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hush'd  in  grim  repose  expects  his  evening  prey. 

«'  Fill  high  tlie  sparkling  bowl, 

The  rich  repast  prepare ; 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast: 

Close  by  the  regal  chair 
Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 

Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray. 
Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 
Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course. 

And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 
Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lastmg  shame, 

With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed. 
Revere  his  Consort's  faith,  his  Father's  fame. 

And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head ! 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread; 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

"  Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof;  The  thread  is  spun;) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove ;  The  work  is  done;) 


278  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Stay,  O  stay  I  nor  thus  forlorn 

Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 

In  yon  bright  track  that  fires  the  western  skies 

They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 

But  oh !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height, 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight. 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail :  — 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings !  Britannia's  Issue,  hall  I 

•'  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold, 

Sublimo  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 
And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old, 

In  beai'ded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-Line : 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face 
Attemper'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  In  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play  I 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many-color'd  wings, 

"  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe  by  fairy  Fiction  dreefc. 

In  buskin'd  measui'es  wove 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breaa*. 

A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-chotr 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  c^pirft. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  tlic  golden  flood. 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 


EARLY  DAWN   AND   SUNRISE.  279 

Enough  for  me  :  wltli  joy  I  see 

The  diflerent  doom  our  fates  assign: 
Be  tlihie  Despair  and  sceptred  Care; 

To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine." 

—  He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  tlie  mountain's  height 

Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  lie  plunged  to  endless  niglit. 

Gray. 

EARLY  DAWN  AND  SUNRISE, 
ny  yT"UCH  as  we  are  indebted  to  our  observatories  for  elevating 
-'-'-'-  our  conceptions  of  tlie  heavenly  bodies,  they  present, 
even  to  the  unaided  sight,  scenes  of  glory  which  words  are  too 
feeble  to  describe.  I  had  occasion,  a  few  weeks  since,  to  take 
the  early  train  from  Providence  to  Boston  ;  and  for  this  pur- 
pose rose  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Everything  around 
was  wrapped  in  darkness  and  hushed  in  silence,  broken  only  by 
what  seemed  at  that  hour  the  unearthly  clank  and  rush  of  the 
train.  It  was  a  mild,  serene,  midsummer's  niglit ;  the  sky  was 
without  a  cloud,  the  winds  were  hushed. 

The  moon,  then  in  the  last  quarter,  had  just  risen,  and  the 
stars  shone  with  a  spectral  lustre  but  litt'e  affected  by  her 
presence.  Jupiter,  two  hours  high,  was  tlie  herald  of  the  day ; 
the  Pleiades,  just  above  the  horizon,  shed  their  sweet  influence 
in  the  east ;  Lyra  sparkled  near  the  zenith  ;  Andromeda  veiled 
her  newly  discovered  glories  from  the  naked  eye,  in  the  south ; 
the  steady  Pointers,  far  beneath  the  pole,  looked  meekly  up, 
from  the  depths  of  the  north,  to  their  sovereign. 

Such  was  the  glorious  spectacle  as  I  entered  the  train.  As 
we  proceeded,  the  timid  approach  of  twilight  became  more  per- 
ceptible ;  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  began  to  soften ;  the 
smaller  stars,  like  little  children,  went  first  to  rest;  the  sister 
beams  of  the  Pleiades  soon  melted  together  ;  but  the  bright  con- 
stellations of  the  west  and  north  remained  unchanged.  Steadily 
the  wondrous  transfiguration  went  on.  Hands  of  angels,  hid« 
den  from  mortal  eyes,  shifted  the  sceneiy  of  the  heavens ;  the 
glories  of  night  dissolved  into  the  glories  of  the  dawn. 


280  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  blue  sky  now  turned  more  softly  gray  ;  the  great  watch- 
stars  shut  up  their  holy  eyes  ;  the  east  began  to  kindle.  Faint 
streaks  of  purple  soon  blushed  along  the  sky  ;  the  whole  celes- 
tial concave  was  filled  with  the  inflowing  tides  of  the  morning 
light,  which  came  pouring  down  from  above  in  one  great  ocean 
of  radiance  ;  till  at  length,  as  we  reached  the  Blue  Hills,  a  flush 
of  purple  fire  blazed  out  from  above  the  horizon,  and  turned  the 
dewy  teardrops  of  flower  and  leaf  into  rubies  and  diamonds. 
In  a  few  seconds,  the  everlasting  gates  of  the  morning  were 
thrown  wide  open,  and  the  lord  of  day,  arrayed  in  glorie»  too 
severe  for  the  gaze  of  man,  began  his  state. 

I  do  not  wonder  at  the  superstition  of  the  ancient  Magians, 

who,  in  the  morning  of  the  world,  went  up  to  the  hill-tops  of 

Central  Asia,  and,  ignorant  of  the  true  God,  adored  the  most 

glorious  work  of  His  hand.     But  I  am  filled  with  amazement 

when  I  am  told  that,  in  this  enlightened  age,  and  in  the  heart 

of  the  Christian  world,  there  are  persons  who  can  witness  this 

dail^^  manifestation  of  the  power  and  wisdom  of  the  Creator 

and  yet  say  in  their  hearts,  "  There  is  no  God." 

Edvoarcl  Everett. 


GATHERING  SONG  OF  DONALD  THE  BLAOK. 

-piBROCH  of  Donuil  Dhu  Pibroch  of  Donull 
-*-     "Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew,  summon  Clan  Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away,  hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war-aiTay,  gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and  from  mountain  so  rocky; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon  are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and  true  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and  strong  hand  tliat  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd,  the  flock  without  shelter; 
Leave  tlie  corpse  uninterr'd,  the  bride  at  the  altar; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer,  leave  nets  and  barges : 
^ome  with  your  tlghting  gear,  broadswords  and  targes. 


THE  VAGABONDS.  281 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when  forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when  navies  are  stranded; 
Faster  come,  faster  come,  faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom,  tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ;  see  how  they  gather ! 

Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume  blended  with  heather. 

Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades,  forward  each  man  set! 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  knell  for  the  onset ! 

Scott. 


THE  VAGABONDS. 
"VTTE  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

'  ^       Roger 's  ray  dog.     Come  hei-e,  you  scamp. 
Jump  for  the  gentleman  —  mind  your  eye ! 
Over  the  table  —  look  out  for  the  lamp ! 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old : 

Five  years  we  've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather. 
And  slept  out  doors  when  nights  were  cold. 
And  ate,  and  drank,  and  starved  together. 

We  've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  : 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow. 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there  has  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(Tills  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

Ajid  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings. 

No,  tliank  you,  sir,  I  never  drink. 
Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  maraL 

Axe  n't  we  Roger?     See  him  wink- 
Well,  something  hot  then,  we  won't  quarrel. 

He 's  thirsty  too  —  see  him  nod  his  head. 
What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk; 

He  understands  every  word  that 's  said. 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water  and  chalk. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I  've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I  've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here  's  to  you,  sir)  even  of  my  dog. 


282  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

But  he  sticks  by  through  thick  and  thin, 
And  this  old  coat  with  its  empty  pockets, 

And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He  '11  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving. 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master. 
No,  sir !  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  — 

By  George !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  — 
That  is,  there  's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow,  but  no  matter. 

We  '11  have  some  music  if  you  are  willing. 

And  Roger  here  (what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  sir) 
Shall  march  a  little.     Start,  you  villain ! 

Paws  up  !  eyes  front !  salute  your  oScer ! 
'Bout  face !  attention  !  take  your  rifle ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms  you  see.)    Now  hold 
Your  cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier. 

March !    Halt !    Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence; 
Now  tell  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  that's  five  — he  's  mighty  knowing; 

The  night 's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses ; 
Quick,  sir !    I  'm  ill ;  my  brain  is  going ; 

Some  brandy ;  tliank  you :  there,  it  passes. 

Why  not  reform?    That 's  easily  said. 

But  I  've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment. 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant. 
That  my  poor  stomach  's  past  reform. 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I  'd  sell  out  Heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 


THE  VAGABONDS.  288 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love ;  but  I  took  to  drink ; 

Tlie  same  old  story,  you  know  ho\v  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features  — 

You  need  n't  laugh,  sir,  I  was  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men. 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair,  so  young. 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ; 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  suag 

"When  the  wine  went  round,  you  would  n't  have  guess'd 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog. 

She 's  married  since,  a  parson's  wife ; 

'T  was  better  for  her  tliat  we  should  part; 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her?    Once !    I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road ;  a  carriage  stopped. 
But  little  she  dreamed  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped. 

You  've  set  me  talking,  sir,  I  'm  sorry ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change. 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing?  you  find  It  strange? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me, 

T  was  weU  she  died  before.     Do  you  know, 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  Heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below? 

Anothei  glass,  and  strong  to  deaden 

This  pain ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  lie  such  a  lumpish,  leaden. 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart? 


394  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep  if  he  could, 
No  doubt  remembering  things  that  were : 

A  virtuous  kennel  with  plenty  of  food, 
And  himself  a  sober  respectable  cur. 

I  'm  better  now ;  that  glass  was  warming. 

You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead  you  think? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink ; 

The  sooner  the  better  for  Roger  and  me. 

From  "  The  Vagabonds,  and  Other  Poems."  Trowbridge. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTUEE. 

~1~F  I  were  to  tell  j'ou  the  stor}'  of  Napoleon,  I  should  take 
-'-  it  from  the  lips  of  Frenchmen,  who  find  no  language  rich 
enough  to  paint  the  great  captain  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Were  I  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Washington,  I  should  take  it  from 
your  hearts,  — you,  who  think  no  marble  white  enough  on  which 
to  carve  the  name  of  the  Father  of  his  country.  But  I  am  to 
tell  you  the  story  of  a  negro,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  who  has 
left  hardly  one  written  line.  I  am  to  glean  it  from  the  reluc- 
tant testimony  of  his  enemies,  men  who  despised  him  because 
he  was  a  negro  and  a  slave,  and  hated  him  because  he  had 
beaten  them  in  battle. 

Cromwell  mauufacturetl  his  own  army.  Napoleon,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-seven,  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  best  troops 
Europe  ever  saw.  Cromwell  never  saw  an  army  till  he  was  fort}' ; 
this  man  never  saw  a  soldier  till  he  was  fifty.  Cromwell  manu- 
factured his  own  array  —  out  of  what?  Englishmen,  —  the  best 
blood  in  Eiircjpo.  Out  of  tlie  middle  class  of  Englishmen,  —  the 
best  blood  of  the  island.  And  with  it  be  conquered  what?  Eng- 
liBhmen,  —  their  equals.     This  man  manufactured  his  army  out 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE.  285 

of  what?  Out  of  what  you  call  the  despicable  race  of  negroes, 
debased,  demoralized  by  two  hundred  years  of  slavery,  one  hun- 
dred thousand  ot  them  imported  into  the  island  within  Unw 
years,  unable  to  speak  a  dialect  intelligible  even  to  each  other. 
Yet  out  of  this  mixed,  and,  as  you  say,  despicable  mass  he 
forged  a  thunderbolt,  and  hurled  it  at  what?  At  the  proudest 
blood  in  Europe,  the  Spaniard,  and  sent  him  home  conquered  ; 
at  the  most  warlike  blood  in  Europe,  the  French,  and  put  them 
under  his  feet ;  at  the  pluckiest  blood  in  Europe,  the  English, 
and  they  skulked  home  to  Jamaica.  Now,  if  Cromwell  was  a 
general,  at  least  this  man  was  a  soldier.  , 

Now,  blue-eyed  Saxon,  proud  of  your  race,  go  bacK  with 
me  to  the  commencement  of  the  century,  and  select  what 
statesman  you  please.  Let  him  be  either  American  or  Euro- 
pean ;  let  him  have  a  brain  the  result  of  six  generations  of 
culture  ;  let  him  have  the  ripest  training  of  university  routine  ; 
let  him  add  to  it  the  better  education  of  practical  life  ;  crown 
his  temples  with  the  silver  locks  of  seventy  years,  and  show 
me  the  man  of  Saxon  lineage  for  whom  his  most  sanguine 
admirer  will  wreathe  a  laurel,  rich  as  embittered  foes  have 
placed  on  the  brow  of  this  negro,  —  rare  military  skill,  pro- 
found knowledge  of  human  nature,  content  to  blot  out  all 
party  distinctions,  and  trust  a  state  to  the  blood  of  its  sons, 
—  anticipating  Sir  Robert  Peel  fifty  years,  and  taking  his 
station  by  the  side  of  Roger  Williams,  before  any  English- 
man or  American  had  won  the  right ;  and  yet  this  is  the  record 
which  the  history  of  rival  States  makes  up  for  this  inspired 
black  of  St.  Domingo. 

Some  doubt  the  courage  of  the  negro.  Go  to  Hayti,  and 
stand  on  those  fifty  thousand  graves  of  the  best  soldiers  France 
ever  had,  and  ask  them  what  Ihey  think  of  the  negio's  sword. 
I  would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon  made  his  way  to 
empire  over  broken  oaths  and  through  a  sea  of  blood.  This 
man  never  broke  his  word.     I  would  call  him  Ci'omwell,  but 


286  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Cromwell  was  only  a  soldier,  and  the  state  he  founded  went 
down  with  him  into  his  grave. 

You  think  me  a  fanatic,  for  you  read  history,  not  with  your 
eyes  but  with  your  prejudices.  But  fifty  years  hence,  when 
Truth  gets  a  hearing,  the  Muse  of  history  shall  put  Phocion  for 
the  Greek,  Brutus  for  the  Roman,  Hampden  for  England, 
Fayette  for  France,  choose  Washington  as  the  bright  consum- 
mate flower  of  our  earlier  civilization,  then,  dipping  her  pen  in 
the  sunlight,  will  write  in  the  clear  blue,  above  them  all,  the 
name  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  mart3'r,  Toussainl 
L'Ouverture.  Wend4it  PhUUps. 

THE  OLOTTD. 

T"  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

■^  From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 

I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  birds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night 't  is  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arras  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  ray  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  by  flts  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  rac, 
Lured  by  tlic  love  of  tlio  genii  tliat  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 


THE   CLOUD.  287 

Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  lieaven's  blue  smile, 

"Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead ; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneatti, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  my  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  tlie  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarra  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  tlie  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 


•J88  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

from  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam  proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march, 

"With  hurricane,  Are,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-colored  bow ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through  tlie  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 

prom  the  depth  of  their  gloom,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  agahi. 

ShelUy 


BRUTUS  AlTD  CASSIUS. 


/lASSIUS.    That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  In  tliis  i 

You  liave  condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side 
Because  I  knew  tlie  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.    You  wrong'd  yourself  to  write  in  sucli  a  case. 

Cass.     In  such  a  time  as  tliis  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  ofleuce  should  bear  liis  comment. 

Bru.     Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn'd  to  liave  an  itching  palm; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  odlccs  for  gold 
To  undeservcrs. 


BKUTUS   AND   CASSIUS.  289 

Cass.  I  an  itching  palm ! 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  spealc  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.    The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corruption, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cass.    Chastisement ! 

Bru.    Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember! 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice?    What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  —  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  Moon, 
TJifl"  such  a  Roman. 

Cass.  Brutus,  bay  not  me, 

I  '11  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself. 
To  hedge  me  in ;  I  am  a  soldier,  ay. 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to ;  you  are  not  Cassiua. 

Cass.    I  am. 

Bru.    I  say  you  are  not. 

Cass.    Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself} 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

Bru.     Away,  slight  man ! 

Cass.     Is 't  possible? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares? 

Cass.     O  ye  gods,  ye  gods!  must  I  endure  all  this? 

Bru.    Ail  this?  ?.y,  more  •  fret,  till  your  proud  heart  break; 
Go  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge? 
Must  I  observe  you?    Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor?    By  the  gods. 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen. 
Though  It  do  split  you ;  for  from  this  day  forth 


290  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

1 11  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cass.  Is  it  come  to  this? 

Bru.    You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier : 
Let  it  appear  so ;  malie  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well.     For  mine  own  part, 
I  shaU  be  glad  to  learn  of  abler  men. 

Cass.    You  wrong  me  every  way,  you  wrong  me,  Brutus ; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better : 
Did  I  say  better? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cass.     When  Caesar  liv'd  he  durst  not  thus  have  mov'd  me. 

Bru.     Peace,  peace !  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

Cass.    I  durst  not? 

Bru.     No. 

Cass.    What,  durst  not  tempt  him? 

Bru.  Eor  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cass.     Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love ; 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.    You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats; 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind. 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me;  — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means : 
By  Heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  tlie  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection.  —  I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions. 
Which  you  denied  me :  Was  that  done  like  Cassius? 
Should  I  have  ahswcr'd  Caius  Cassius  so? 
Wlicn  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Bo  ready,  gods,  with  all  yonr  thunderbolts, 
Dash  him  to  pieces ! 

Cass.  I  (lenidd  you  not. 

Bru.     You  did. 

Cat*.  1  did  not :  he  was  but  a  fool 


BRUTUS   AND   CASSIUS.  291 

That  brought  my  answer  back.  —  Brutus  hath  riv'd  my  heart 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  inflrmities, 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

£ru.     I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cass.     You  love  me  not. 

£ru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cass.     A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.    A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cass.     Come,  Antony  and  young  Octavius,  come. 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  a- weary  of  the  world ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  brav'd  by  his  brother ; 
Check'd  like  a  bondman ;  all  his  faults  observ'd, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learn'd,  and  conn'd  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     Oh,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes !  —  There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth ; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  Avill  give  my  heart. 
Strike  as  thou  didst  at  Cajsar ;  for  I  know. 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lovedst  him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger : 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
O  Cassius !  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  flre; 
"Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark. 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cass.  Ilatli  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  l)lood  ill-tempcr'd,  vexcth  him? 

Bru.     When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-tcraper'd  too. 

Cass.     Do  you  confess  so  much?     Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.     And  my  heart  too. 

Cass.  O  Brutus,  — 

Bru.  What's  the  matter? 

Ca*s.    Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 


292  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me 
Makes  me  forgetful? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius ;  and  from  henceforth, 

When  you  are  over-earnest  Avith  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 


Shakeepeare. 


THE  BLIND  MAN. 

AS  he  passed  by,  he  saw  a  man  blind  from  his  birth.  And 
his  disciples  asked  him,  saying,  Rabbi,  who  did  sin,  this 
man,  or  his  parents,  that  he  should  be  born  blind?  Jesus 
answered,  Neither  did  this  man  sin,  nor  his  parents:  but  that 
the  works  of  God  should  be  made  manifest  in  him.  We  must 
work  the  works  of  him  that  sent  me,  while  it  is  day :  the  night 
Cometh,  when  no  man  can  work.  "When  I  am  in  the  world,  I 
am  the  light  of  the  world.  "When  he  had  thus  spoken,  he  spat 
on  the  ground,  and  made  clay  of  the  spittle,  and  anointed  his 
eyes  with  the  clay,  and  said  unto  him,  Go,  wash  in  the  pool  of 
Siloam  (which  is  by  interpretation,  Sent).  He  went  away 
therefore,  and  washed,  and  came  seeing. 

Tlie  neighbours,  therefore,  and  they  which  saw  him  aforetime, 
that  he  was  a  beggar,  said,  Is  not  this  he  that  sat  and  begged? 
Others  said,  It  is  he  :  others  said,  No,  but  he  is  like  him.  He 
said,  I  am  he.  They  said  therefore  unto  him.  How  then  were 
thine  eyes  opened?  He  awswered.  The  man  that  is  called  Jesus 
made  clay,  and  anointed  mine  eyes,  and  said  unto  me.  Go  to 
Siloam,  and  wash :  so  I  went  away  and  washed,  and  I  received 
sight.  And  they  said  unto  him,  Where  is  he?  He  saith,  I  know 
not. 

They  bring  to  the  Pharisees  him  that  aforetime  was  blind. 
Now  it  was  the  sabbatli  on  the  day  when  Jesus  made  the 
clay,  and  opened  his  eyes.  Again  therefore,  the  Pharisees  also 
asked  him  how  he  received  his  sight.  And  he  said  unto  them, 
He  put  clay  upon  mine  eyes,  and  I  washed,  and  do  see.  Some 
therefore  of  the  Pharisees  said.  This  man  is  not  from  God,  be* 


THE   BLIND   MAN.  298 

cause  he  keepeth  not  the  sabbath.  But  others  said,  How  can  a 
man  that  is  a  sinner  do  such  signs?  And  tlierc  was  a  division 
among  them.  They  say  tlicrcfore  unto  the  blind  man  again, 
What  sayest  tliou  of  him,  in  tluvt  lie  opened  thine  eyes?  And 
he  said,  He  is  a  prophet. 

The  Jews  therefore  did  not  believe  concerning  him,  that  he 
had  been  blind,  and  had  received  his  sight,  until  they  called  the 
parents  of  him  that  had  received  his  sight,  and  asked  them., 
saying,  Is  this  your  son,  who  ye  say  was  born  blind  ?  how  then 
doth  he  now  see?  His  parents  answered  and  said,  "We  know 
that  this  is  our  son,  and  that  he  was  born  blind :  but  how  he 
now  sceth,  we  know  not ;  or  who  opened  his  eyes,  we  know  not : 
ask  him  ;  he  is  of  age ;  he  shall  speak  for  himself.  These 
things  said  his  parents,  because  they  feared  the  Jews :  for  the 
Jews  had  agreed  alread}-,  that  if  any  man  should  confess  him  to 
be  Christ,  he  should  be  put  out  of  the  synagogue.  Therefore 
said  his  parents.  He  is  of  age  ;  ask  him. 

So  they  called  a  second  time  the  man  that  was  blind,  and  said 
unto  him,  Give  glory  to  God  :  we  know  that  this  man  is  a 
sinner.  He  therefore  answered.  Whether  he  be  a  sinner,  I 
know  not :  one  tiling  I  know,  that,  whereas  I  was  blind,  now  I 
see.  They  said  therefore  unto  him,  What  did  he  to  thee?  how 
opened  he  thine  eyes?  He  answered  them,  I  told  you  even 
now,  and  ye  did  not  hear :  wherefore  would  ye  hear  h  again  ? 
would  ye  also  become  his  disciples?  And  they  reviled  him,  and 
said.  Thou  art  his  disciple  ;  but  we  are  disciples  of  Moses.  We 
know  that  God  hath  spoken  unto  Moses :  but  as  for  this  man, 
we  know  not  whence  he  is.  The  man  answered,  and  said  unto 
them.  Why,  herein  is  the  marvel,  that  ye  know  not  whence  he  is, 
and  yet  he  opened  mine  eyes.  We  know  that  God  heareth  not 
sinners :  but  if  au}-  man  be  a  worshipper  of  God,  and  do  his 
will,  him  he  heareth.  Since  the  world  began  it  was  never  heard 
that  any  one  opened  the  eyes  of  a  man  born  blind.  If  this  man 
were  not  from  God,  he  could  do  nothing.     They  answered  and 


994  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

flaid  unto  him,  Thou  wast  altogether  born  in  sins,  and  dost  tbau 
teach  us?     And  they  cast  him  out. 

Jesus  heard  that  they  had  cast  him  out ;  and  finding  him,  he 
said,  Dost  thou  believe  on  the  Son  of  God  ?  He  answered  and 
said,  And  who  is  he,  Lord,  that  I  may  believe  on  him?  Jesus 
said  unto  him.  Thou  hast  both  seen  him,  and  he  it  is  that  speak- 
eth  with  thee.  And  he  said,  Lord,  I  believe.  And  he  wor- 
shipped him.  s^-  "^"ftrt. 

THE  STAE-SPANGLED  BANITER. 

OSAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
"What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming  •, 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  tlie  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  streaming? 
And  the  rocliets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air. 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there ; 
O,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

"What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam; 

Its  full  glory,  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream; 

'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner,  oh,  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 

'Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  hath  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution ; 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh!  thus  1)0  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  our  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation; 


DEATH  OF   COPERNICUS.  295 

Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 

Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation! 
Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "  Ix  God  is  our  thust  " ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  tlie  land  of  the  free  and  tlic  home  of  the  brave.  Key. 


DEATH  OF  COPEENICUS. 

AT  length  he  di-aws  near  his  end.  He  is  seventy-three  years 
of  age,  and  he  yields  his  work  on  "  The  Revolutions  of 
the  Heavenly  Orbs  "  to  his  friends  for  publication.  The  day 
at  last  lias  come  on  which  it  is  to  be  ushered  into  the  world.  It 
is  the  21th  of  May,  1543. 

On  that  day  —  the  effect,  no  doubt,  of  the  intense  excitement 
of  his  mind,  operating  upon  an  exhausted  frame  —  an  effusion 
of  blood  brings  him  to  the  gates  of  the  grave.  His  last  hour 
has  come  ;  he  lies  stretched  upon  the  couch  from  which  he  will 
never  rise. 

The  beams  of  the  setting  sun  glance  through  the  Gothic 
windows  of  his  chamber ;  near  his  bedside  is  the  armillary 
sphere  which  he  has  contrived  to  represent  his  theory  of  the 
heavens  ;  his  pi^^ture  painted  by  himself,  the  amusement  of  his 
earlier  years,  hangs  before  him  ;  beneath  it  are  his  astrolabe 
and  other  imperfect  astronomical  instruments  ;  and  around  him 
are  gathered  his  sorrowing  disciples. 

The  door  of  the  apartment  opens  ;  the  eye  of  the  departing 
sage  is  turned  to  see  who  enters  :  it  is  a  friend  who  brings  him 
the  first  printed  copy  of  his  immortal  treatise.  He  knows  that 
in  that  book  he  contradicts  all  that  has  ever  been  distinctly 
taught  by  former  philosophers  ;  he  knows  that  he  has  rebelled 
against  the  sway  of  Ptolemy,  which  the  scientific  world  has 
acknowledged  for  a  thousand  years  ;  he  knows  that  the  popular 
mind  will  be  shocked  by  his  innovations ;  he  knows  that  the 


296  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

attempt  will  be  made  to  press  even  religion  into  the  service 
against  him  ;  but  he  knows  that  his  book  is  true. 

He  is  dying,  but  he  leaves  a  glorious  truth  as  his  dying 
bequest  to  the  world.  He  bids  the  friend  who  has  brought  it 
place  himself  between  the  window  and  his  bedside,  that  the 
sun's  rnys  may  fall  upon  the  precious  volume,  and  he  may 
behold  it  once  more  before  his  eye  grows  dim.  He  loolcs 
upon  it,  takes  it  in  his  hands,  presses  it  to  his  breast,  and 
expires. 

But  no,  he  is  not  wholly  gone.  A  smile  lights  upon  his 
dying  countenance  ;  a  beam  of  returning  intelligence  kindles  in 
his  eye ;  his  lips  move  ;  and  the  friend  who  leans  over  him 
can  hear  him  faintly  murmur  the  beautiful  sentiments  which 
the  Christian  lyrist  of  a  later  age  has  so  finely  expressed  in 
verse : — 

"  Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell,  with  all  your  feeble  light; 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon,  pale  empress  of  the  night; 
And  thou,  effulgent  orb  of  day,  in  brighter  flames  arrayed ; 
My  soul,  which  springs  beyond  thy  sphere,  no  more  demands  thy  aid. 
Ye  stars  are  but  tlie  shining  dust  of  ray  divine  abode, 
Tiie  pavement  of  these  heavenly  courts  where  I  shall  reign  with  God." 

So  died  the  great  Columbus  of  the  heavens. 

Edward  Everett. 


ELEGY  m  A  OOITNTEY  CHUECH-YAKD. 

rpiIE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
-*-      Tlie  lowing  herd  winds  slov.i}'  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plougliman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  th»  si^^ht. 

And  all  tlio  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  tlie  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 


ELEGY  IN   A  COUNTRY  CHtTBCH-YARD.  297 

Save  that,  from  yonder  Ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap. 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  mom, 

Tlic  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed. 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  mere  the  blazing  hearth  shall  bum, 

Or  busy  liousewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

IIow  bow'd  the  woods  beneatli  tlieir  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Tlieir  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  tlie  Poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour :  — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  tlie  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  ZJlattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death? 


298  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire : 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  IjTe ; 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined, 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignobU  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  leam'd  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

Tliey  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 
Some  frail  memorial,  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


ELEGY  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YABD.      299 

Their  name,  their  j'ears,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

To  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  f  orgetf  ulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate  — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  'customed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  : 

Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he ; 

"  The  next,  with  dii'ges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne,  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  agfed  thom." 


500  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Eame  unknown : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  liurable  birth, 
And  Melanclioly  raark'd  liim  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  heaven  ('t  was  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  di-aw  his  frailties  from  their  clread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


Qray. 


THE  BIBLE. 

THE  Bible  is  the  treasure  of  the  poor,  the  solace  of  the  sick, 
and  the  support  of  the  dying ;  and  while  other  books 
may  amuse  and  instruct  in  a  leisure  hour,  it  is  the  peculiar 
triumph  of  that  book  to  create  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  to 
alleviate  the  sorrow  which  admits  of  no  other  alleviation,  to 
direct  a  beam  of  hope  to  the  heart  which  no  other  topic  of  con- 
solation can  reach  ;  while  guilt,  despair,  and  death  vanish  at  the 
touch  of  its  holy  inspiration. 

There  is  something  in  the  spirit  and  diction  of  the  Bible  which 
is  found  peculiarly  adapted  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  plain- 
est and  most  uucultivated  minds.  The  simple  structure  of  its 
sentences,  combined  with  a  lofty  spirit  of  poetry  —  its  familiar 
allusions  to  tlie  scenes  of  nature  and  the  transactions  of  common 
life — the  delightful  intermixture  of  narration  with  the  doctrinal 
and  preceptive  parts  —  and  the  profusion  of  miraculous  facts 
which  convi  rt  it  into  a  sort  of  enchanted  ground  —  its  constant 
advertence  to  the  Deity,  whose  perfections  it  renders  almost  vis- 
ible and  palpable  —  unite  in  bestowing  upon  it  an  interest  which 
attaches  to  no  other  performance,  and  which,  after  assiduous 


BERNARDO   DEL   CARPIO.  301 

and  repeated  perusal,  invests  it  with  much  of  the  charm  of 
novelty  ;  like  the  great  orb  of  day,  at  which  we  are  wont  to  gaze 
with  unabated  astouishmeut  from  infancy  to  old  age. 

What  other  book  besides  the  Bible  could  be  heard  in  public 
assemblies  from  year  to  year,  with  an  attention  that  never  tires, 
and  an  interest  that  never  cloys?  With  few  exceptions,  let  a 
portion  of  the  sacred  volume  be  recited  in  a  mixed  multitude, 
and  though  it  has  been  heard  a  thousand  times,  a  universal  still- 
ness ensues,  every  eye  is  fixed,  and  every  ear  is  awake  and 
attentive.  Select,  if  you  can,  any  other  composition,  and  let  it 
be  rendered  equally  familiar  to  the  mind,  and  see  whether  it  will 
produce  this  effect.  Robert  Eaii. 

BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 

f  |1IIE  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heait  of  Are, 
-*-      And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprisoned  sire; 
"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress-keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 
I  pledge  thee  faitli,  my  liege,  my  lord !  —  Oil !  break  my  father's  chain ! " 

"  Rise,  rise !  even  now  thy  fatlier  comes,  a  ransomed  man  this  day  : 
Mount  thy  good  horse ;  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed, 
Ami  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

And  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  pressed,  there  came  a  glittering  band. 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in  the  land  : 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste !  for  there,  in  very  truth,  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearned  so  long  to  see." 

His  dark  ej^e  flashed,  liis  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  hue  came 

and  went : 
He  reached  that  gray-haired  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismounting, 

bent; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he  took  — 
"What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook? 

That  hand  was  cold,  a  frozen  thing,  —  it  dropped  from  his  like  lead  I 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above,  —  the  face  was  of  the  dead ! 


802  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow,  — the  brow  was  fixed  and  white; 
He  met,  at  last,  his  father's  eyes,  —  but  in  them  was  no  sight ! 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang  and  gazed;  —  but  who  could  paint  that 

gaze? 
They  hushed  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze:  — 
They  might  have  chained  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he  stood; 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father !  "  at  length  he  murmured  low,  and  wept  like  childhood  then : 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men  I 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown,  — 
He  flung  his  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sat  down. 

Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly  mournful  brow, 
"  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword  for,  now; 
My  king  is  false  —  my  hope  betrayed !     My  father  —  oh !  the  worth, 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  passed  away  from  earth ! 

"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire,  beside  thee.'yet! 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil  had  met  I 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit,  then;  — for  thee  my  fields  were 

won; 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou  hadst  no  son !  " 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  monarch's 

rein. 
Amidst  the  pale  and  'wildered  looks  of  all  tlic  courtier  train ; 
And,  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  war-horse  led, 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face  —  the  king  before  the  dead: 

•'  Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss? 

Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king!  and  tell  me,  what  is  this? 

The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought,  —  give  answer,  where  are 

they? 
If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through  this  cold 

clayl 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light;  —  be  still !  keep  down  thine  irel  — 
Bid  those  white  lips  a  blessing  speak,  — this  earth  is  not  my  sire: 
(live  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was  shed  I  — 
Thou  canst  not?  and  a  king  I  —  his  dust  bo  mountains  on  thy  head!  " 


INCIDENT   OF  THE   FRENCH   CAMP.  308 

He  loosed  the  steed,  —  his  slack  hand  fell ;  —  upon  the  silent  face 
lie  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look,  then  turned  from  that  sad  place: 
His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after  fate  untold  in  martial  strain :  — 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more,  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 

Mm.  Jlemant. 


INCIDENT  OF   THE  FRENCH  CAMF. 

"VT'OU  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon ; 

-■-      A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  aimy-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall  —  " 
Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect  — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 
We  've  got  you  Katisl)on ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 
And  you  '11  be  there  jinon 


804  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him ! "    The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheatlies 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes ; 
♦•  You're  wounded  ! "     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quiclc,  he  said : 
"  I  'm  killed,  Sire !  "    And  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


£roumtn§. 


AMEBICA'S  DUTY  TO  RESIST. 

IT  is  natural  for  man  to  indulge  in  the  illusions  of  liope.  We 
are  apt  to  shut  our  e^'es  against  a  painful  truth,  and  listen 
to  the  song  of  that  siren  till  she  transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is 
this  the  part  of  wise  men,  engaged  in  a  great  and  arduous 
struggle  for  liberty  ?  Are  we  disposed  to  be  of  the  number  of 
those  who,  having  eyes,  see  not,  and  having  ears,  hear  not  the 
things  which  so  nearly  concern  their  temporal  salvation?  For 
my  part,  whatever  anguish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am  willing  to 
know  the  whole  truth,  —  to  know  the  worst,  and  to  provide  for  it. 

I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided  ;  and  that 
is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no  way  of  judging  of  the 
future  but  by  the  past;  and,  judging  by  the  past,  I  wish  to 
know  what  there  has  been  in  the  conduct  of  the  British  ministry 
for  the  last  ten  years  to  justifj^  those  hopes  with  which  gentle- 
men have  been  pleased  to  solace  themselves,  and  the  House? 
Is  it  that  insidious  smile  with  which  our  petition  has  been  lately 
received?  Trust  it  not,  Sir  ;  it  will  i)rove  a  snare  to  your  feet: 
BufTcr  not  yourselves  to  be  betrayed  with  a  kiss. 

Ask  yourselves  how  this  gracious  recei)tion  of  our  petition 
comports   with   those    warlike   preparations    which    cover  out 


AMERICA'S   DUTY   TO   RESIST.  805 

waters  and  darken  our  land.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary 
to  a  work  of  love  and  reconciliation?  Have  wc  sliown  our- 
selves so  unwilling  to  be  reconciled,  that  force  must  be  called 
in  to  win  back  our  love?  Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves,  Sir: 
these  are  the  implements  of  war  and  subjugation,  —  the  last 
arguments  to  which  kings  resort. 

I  a^k  gentlemen,  Sir,  what  means  this  martial  array,  if  its 
purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission  ?  Can  gentlemen 
assign  any  other  possible  motive  for  it?  Has  Great  Britain  any 
enemy  in  tliis  quarter  of  the  world  to  call  for  all  this  accumula- 
tion of  navies  and  armies?  No,  Sir,  she  has  none.  They  are 
meant  for  us  :  they  can  be  meant  for  no  otlier.  They  are  sent 
over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon  us  those  chains  which  the  British 
ministry  have  been  so  long  forging.  And  what  have  we  to 
oppose  to  them?  Shall  we  try  argument?  Sir,  we  have  been 
trying  that  for  the  last  ten  years.  Have  we  anything  new  to 
offer  upon  the  subject?  Nothing.  We  have  held  tlie  subject 
up  in  every  light  of  which  it  is  capable  ;  but  it  has  been  all  in 
vain. 

Shall  we  resort  to  entreat}'  and  humble  supplication?  What 
terms  shall  wa  find  which  have  not  been  already  exhausted? 
Let  us  not,  I  be  seech  you.  Sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer.  Sir, 
we  have  done  everything  that  could  be  done  to  avert  the  storra 
which  is  now  coming  on.  We  h;ive  petitioned ;  we  have  remon- 
strated ;  we  have  supplicated ;  we  hrrrt-^irostrated  ourselves 
before  the  throne,  and  have  implored  its  interposition  to  arrest 
Ihe  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and  Parliament.  OtK^peti- 
tions  have  been  slighted  ;  our  remonstrances  have  produced  addi- 
tional violence  and  insult ;  our  supplications  have  been  disre- 
garded ;  and  we  have  been  spurned  with  contempt  from  the  foot 
of  the  throne. 

In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond  hope 
of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer  any  room  for- 
hope.     If  we  wish  to  be  free,  if  we  mean  to  preserve  inviolate 


306  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

those  inestimable  privileges  for  which  we  have  been  so  long 
contending,  if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the  noble  struggle 
in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged,  and  which  we  have 
pledged  ourselves  never  to  abandon  until  the  glorious  obiect  of 
our  contest  shall  be  obtained,  we  must  fight !  I  repeat  it,  Sir, 
we  must  fight !  An  appeal  to  arms,  and  to  the  God  of  Hosts, 
is  all  that  is  left  us. 

They  tell  us,  Sir,  that  we  are  weak  —  unable  to  cope 
with  so  formidable  an  adversary.  But  when  shall  we  be 
stronger?  Will  it  be  the  next  week — or  the  next  year?  Will 
it  be  when  we  are  totally  disarmed,  and  when  a  British  guard 
shall  be  stationed  in  every  house?  Shall  we  gather  strength 
by  irresolution  and  inaction?  Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of 
effectual  resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hug- 
ging the  delusive  phantom  of  hope  until  our  enemies  shall  have 
bound  us  hand  and  foot?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak,  if  we  make 
a  proper  use  of  those  means  which  the  God  of  Nature  hath 
placed  in  our  power. 

Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in  the  holy  cause  of  liberty, 
and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we  possess,  are  invincible 
under  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send  against  us.  Besides, 
Sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles  alone.  There  is  a  just  God, 
who  presides  over  the  destinies  of  nations,  and  who  will  raise 
up  friends  to  fight  our  battles  for  us.  The  battle.  Sir,  is  not  to 
the  strong  alon-j ;  it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  the  brave. 
Besides,  Sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough  to 
desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the  contest.  There  is 
no  retreat  but  in  submission  and  slavery.  Our  chains  are 
forged  —  their  clanking  may  be  heard  on  the  plains  of  Bosion. 
Tlie  war  is  inevitable  ;  and  let  it  come!  I  repeat  it.  Sir — let 
it  come  ! 

It  is  in  vain,  Sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen  may 
cry  peace  !  peace  !  but  there  is  no  peace.  The  war  is  actually 
begun  !     The  next  gale  that  sweeps  from  the  north  will  bring  to 


PROSPICE.  307 

our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arras !  Our  brethren  are 
ah-eady  in  the  field  !  Why  stand  we  here  idle  ?  What  is  it  that 
gentlemen  wish ?  What  would  they  have?  Is  life  so  dear,  or 
peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of  chains  and 
slavery  ?  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God  !  I  know  not  what  course 
others  may  take ;  but  as  for  me,  give  me  liberty,  or  give  m« 

death  1  Patrick  Henry. 

PBOSPIOE. 

FEAR  death?  —  to  feel  the  fog  iu  my  throat, 
The  mist  iu  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm. 

The  post  of  the  foe, 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go ; 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall. 
Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 

I  would  hate  that  death  bandagea  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  ray  peers, 

The  heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness,  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
Oh,  thou  soul  of  my  soul !  I  shall  clasp  thee  again. 

And  with  God  be  the  rest  I  PrtmtUng. 


308  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 


TO  THE  NIGHT. 

QWIFTLY  walk  over  the  western  wave,  Spirit  of  Night! 
^^  Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 

Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 

Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  —  swift  be  thy  flight  1 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray  star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land. 

Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  —  come,  long-sought 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn,  I  sigh'd  for  thee ; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 

And  noon  lay  hea\7'  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest,  I  sighd  for  thee. 

Thy  brotlier  Death  came,  and  cried,  Wouldst  thou  me?* 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  fllmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd  lilce  a  noontide  bee, 

Sliall  I  Ecstle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me?  —  And  I  replied.  No,  not  thee  I 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead,  soon,  too  soon  — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 

Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 

I  ask  of  thee,  belov&d  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight,  come  soon,  soon ! 

SheUey 


CHABACTEE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

T  TE  is  fallen !  "We  may  now  pause  before  that  splendid 
-' — *-  prodigy,  which  towered  amongst  us  like  some  ancient 
ruin,  whose  frown  terrified  the  glance  its  magnificence  attracted. 
Grand,  gloomy,  and  peculiar,  he  sat  upon  the  throne  a  scep- 
tred hermit,  wrapped  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  originslity. 
A  mind,  bold,  independent,  and  decisive,  —  a  will,  despotic  in 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS.        309 

its  dictates,  —  an  energy  that  distanced  expedition,  and  a  con- 
science  pliable  to  every  touch  of  interest,  marked  the  outline  ot 
this  extraordinary  character, — the  most  extraordinary,  perhops, 
that  in  the  annals  of  this  world  ever  rose,  or  reigned,  or  fell. 
Flung  into  life  in  the  midst  of  a  revolution  that  quickened  e\ery 
energy  of  a  people  who  acknowledge  no  superior,  he  commence^J 
his  course,  a  stranger  by  birth,  and  a  scholar  by  charity  !  With 
no  friend  but  his  sword,  and  no  fortune  but  his  talents,  he  rushed 
into  the  list  where  rank,  and  wealth,  and  genius  had  arrayed 
themselves,  and  competition  fled  from  him  as  from  the  glance  of 
destin3\  He  knew  no  motive  but  interest,  —  he  acknowledged 
no  criterion  but  success,  —  he  worshipped  no  God  but  ambition, 
and  with  an  eastern  devotion  he  knelt  at  the  shrine  of  his  idola- 
try. Subsidiary  to  this,  there  was  no  creed  that  he  did  not  pro- 
fess, there  was  no  opinion  that  he  did  not  promulgate ;  in  the 
hope  of  a  dynast}',  he  upheld  the  crescent ;  for  the  sake  of  a 
divorce,  he  bowed  before  the  cross  ;  the  orphan  of  St.  Louis,  he 
became  the  adopted  child  of  the  republic  ;  and  with  a  parricidal 
ingratitude,  on  the  ruins  both  of  the  throne  and  the  tribune,  he 
reared  the  throne  of  his  despotism.  A  professed  Catholic,  he 
imprisoned  the  Pope ;  a  pretended  patriot,  he  impoverished  the 
country  ;  and  in  the  name  of  Brutus,  he  grasped  without  remorse, 
and  wore  without  shame,  the  diadem  of  the  Caesars. 

C.  PAUHds. 


THE  OLD  OLOCK  ON  THE  STAIES. 

QOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 

^     Stands  the  old-fasliioned  country-seat; 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw ; 

And,  from  its  station  in  the  hall, 

An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, 

• '  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever  I " 


810  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, 

' '  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say  at  each  chamber  door, 

' '  Forever — never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth. 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood. 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw. 
It  calml}'  repeats  those  Avords  of  awe, 

' '  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  '* 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  lilvc  the  skeleton  at  the  feast. 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never —  forever !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played; 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed 
Oil,  precious  lioiirs  !  oh,  golden  prime 
And  affluence  of  love  and  Uma  1 


THE  ISLAND   OF  THE   SCOTS.  811 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  houi'S  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night; 
There,  in  th;it  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay,  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And,  In  the  hush  that  followed  the  praye\-. 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

"  Forever —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 

All  are  scattered,  now,  and  fled, — 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Oh,  when  shall  they  all  meet  again?" 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 

"Where  c!l  pai'ting,  pain,  and  care, 

And  death,  and  time,  shall  disappear,  — 

Forever  there,  but  never  here  1 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 

Sayeth  this  incessantly, 

"  Forever  —  never  I 

Never  —  forever !  " 

LongjeUouK 


THE  ISLA]SfD  OP  THE  SOOTS. 

•  rpHE  stream,"  he  said,  "  is  broad  and  deep,  and  stubborn  Is  the  foe ; 
-L     Yon  island-strengtli  is  guarded  well  —  say,  brothers,  will  ye  gol 
From  home  and  kin  for  many  a  year  our  steps  have  wandered  wide, 
And  never  may  our  bones  be  laid  our  fathers'  graves  beside. 
No  sisters  have  we  to  lament,  no  wives  to  wail  our  fall ; 
The  traitor's  and  the  spoiler's  hand  has  reft  our  hearths  of  all. 
But  we  have  hearts,  and  we  have  arms,  as  strong  to  will  and  dar«, 
As  when  our  ancient  banners  flew  within  the  northern  air. 


312  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Come,  brothers !  let  me  name  a  spell  shall  rouse  your  souls  again, 
And  send  the  old  blood  bounding  free  through  pulse,  and  heart,  an<} 

vein ! 
Call  back  the  days  of  bygone  years — be  young  and  strong  once  more; 
Think  yonder  stream,  so  stark  and  red,  is  one  we  've  crossed  before. 
Kise,  hill  and  glen  !  rise,  crag  and  wo(k1  !  rise  up  on  either  hand !  — 
Again  upon  the  Garry's  banks,  on  Scottish  soil  we  stand! 
Again  I  see  the  tartans  wave,  again  the  trumpets  ring; 
Again  I  hear  our  leader's  call —  '  Upon  them,  for  the  King! ' 
Stayed  we  behind,  that  glorious  day,  for  roaring  flood  or  linn? 
The  soul  of  Grsme  is  with  us  still  —  now,  brothers !  will  ye  in?  "... 

Thick  blew  the  smoke  across  the  stream,  and  faster  flashed  the  flame : 
The  water  plashed  in  hissing  jets,  as  ball  and  bullet  came. 
Yet  onward  pushed  the  Cavaliers  all  stern  and  undismayed, 
With  thousand  armed  foes  before,  and  none  behind  to  aid. 
Once,  as  they  neared  the  middle  stream,  so  strong  the  torrent  swept, 
That  scarce  that  long  and  living  wall  tlieir  dangerous  footing  kept. 
Then  rose  a  warnhig  cry  behind,  a  jo)'OUS  shout  before  : 
"The  current  strong  —  the  way  is  long  —  they  '11  never  reach  the  shore ! 
See !  see  !  tlicy  stagger  in  the  midst,  they  waver  in  their  hue ! 
Fire  on  the  madmen!    break  their  ranks,  and  whelm  them  in  the 
Rhine ! " 

Have  you  seen  the  tall  trees  swaying,  w'hen  the  blast  is  piping  shrill, 

And  the  whirlwind  reels  in  fury  down  the  gorges  of  the  hill? 

How  they  toss  their  mighty  branches,  struggling  with  the  tempest's 

shock ; 
How  they  keep  their  place  of  vantage,  cleaving  firmly  to  the  rock? 
Even  so  the  Scottish  warriors  held  their  own  against  the  river; 
Though  the  water  flashed  around  them,  not  an  eye  was  seen  to  quiver; 
Though  the  shot  flew  sharp  and  deadly,  not  a  man  relaxed  his  hold : 
For  their  heai'ts  were  big  and  thrilling  with  the  mighty  thoughts  o^ 

old. 
One  word  was  spoke  among  them,  and  through  the  ranks  It  spread  — 
"  Remember  our  dead  Clavcrhouse !  "  was  all  the  captain  said. 
Then  sternly  bending  forward,  they  struggled  on  awliile. 
Until  they  cleared  the  heavy  stream,  then  rushed  towards  the  isle. 

The  Gorman  heart  is  stout  and  true,  the  German  arm  is  strong; 
The  German  foot  goes  seldom  back  where  armed  f oemen  throng : 


ILLUSION   AND   DELUSION.  818 

But  never  had  they  faced  in  field  so  stern  a  charge  before, 

And  never  had  they  felt  the  sweep  of  Scotland's  broad  claymore. 

Scarce  swifter  shoots  the  bolt  from  heaven,  than  came  the  Scottish 

band 
Right  up  against  the  guarded  trcncli,  and  o'er  it  sword  in  hand. 
In  vain  their  leaders  forward  press  —  they  meet  the  deadly  brand! 

O  lonely  island  of  the  Rhine,  where  seed  was  never  sown, 
What  harvest  lay  upon  tliy  sands,  by  those  strong  reapers  thrown? 
What  saw  the  winter  moon  that  night,  as,  struggling  through  the  rain, 
She  poured  a  wan  and  fitful  light  on  marsh,  and  stream,  and  plain? 
A  dreary  spot  with  corpses  strewn,  and  bayonets  glistening  round ; 
A  broken  bridge,  a  stranded  boat,  a  bare  and  battered  mound; 
And  one  huge  watch-fire's  kindled  pile  that  sent  its  quivering  glare 
To  tell  the  leaders  of  the  host,  the  conquering  Scots  were  there ! 

And  did  they  twine  the  laurel-wreath  for  those  who  fought  so  well? 
And  did  tiiey  honor  those  who  lived,  and  weep  for  those  who  fell?   ' 
What  meed  of  thanks  was  given  to  them  let  aged  annals  tell. 
Why  should  they  bring  the  laurel-wreath,  —  why  crown  the  cup  with 

wine? 
It  was  not  Frenchmen's  blood  that  flowed  so  freely  on  the  Rhine  — 
A  stranger  band  of  beggared  men  hath  done  the  venturous  deed  : 
The  glory  was  to  France  alone,  the  danger  was  their  meed. 
They  bore  within  their  breasts  the  grief  that  fame  can  never  heal  — 
The  deep,  unutterable  woe,  which  none  save  exiles  feel. 
Their  hearts  were  yearning  for  the  land  they  ne'er  might  see  again  — 
For  Scotland's  high  and  heathered  hills,  for  mountain,  loch,  and  glen  — 
For  those  who  haply  lay  at  rest  beyond  the  distant  sea. 
Beneath  the  green  and  daisied  turf  where  they  would  gladly  be ! 

ILLUSIOBT  AND  DELUSIOU. 

A  BRAHAM  had  a  few  feet  of  earth,  obtained  by  pur- 
-*-^  chase,  —  beyond  that,  nothing;  he  died  a  stranger  and 
a  pilgrim  in  the  land.  Isaac  had  a  little.  So  small  was  Jacob's 
hold  upon  his  country,  that  the  last  years  of  his  life  were  spent 
in  Egypt,  and  he  died  a  foreigner  in  a  strange  land.  His  de- 
scendants came  into  the  land  of  Canaan,  expecting  to  find  it  a 


814  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey  ;  they  found  hard  work  to  do 
—  war  and  unrest,  instead  of  rest.  .  .  . 

Now,  the  surprising  point  is,  that  Abraham,  deceived  as  yon 
might  almost  say,  did  not  complain  of  it  as  a  deception  ;  he  was 
even  grateful  for  the  non-fulfilment  of  the  promise  ;  he  does 
not  seem  to  have  expected  its  fulfilment ;  he  did  not  look  for 
Canaan,  but  for  "a  city  which  had  foundations";  his  faith 
appears  to  have  consisted  in  disbelieving  the  letter,  almost  as 
much  as  in  believing  the  spirit  of  the  promise.  .  .  . 

And  herein  lies  a  principle,  which,  rightly  expounded,  can 
help  us  to  interpret  this  life  of  ours.  God's  promises  never  are 
fulfilled  in  the  sense  in  which  they  seem  to  have  been  given. 
Life  is  a  deception  ;  its  anticipations,  which  are  God's  promises 
to  the  imagination,  are  never  realized  ;  they  who  know  life  best, 
and  have  trusted  God  most  to  fill  it  with  blessings,  are  ever  the 
first  to  say  that  life  is  a  series  of  disappointments.  .  .  . 

There  are  two  ways  of  considering  life.  One  is  the  wa}'  of 
sentiment ;  the  other  is  the  way  of  faith.  The  sentimental  way 
is  trite  enough.  Saint,  sage,  sophist,  moralist,  and  preacher 
have  repeated,  in  ever}'  possible  image,  till  there  is  nothing  new 
to  sa}',  that  life  is  a  bubble,  a  dream,  a  delusion,  a  phantasm. 
The  other  is  the  way  of  faith  :  the  ancient  saints  felt  as  keenly 
as  any  moralist  could  feel  the  brokenness  of  its  promises  ;  they 
confessed  that  they  were  strangers  and  pilgrims  here ;  they  said 
that  here  they  had  no  continuing  city  ;  but  they  did  not  mourn- 
fully moralize  on  this  ;  they  said  it  cheerfully,  and  rejoiced 
that  it  was  so.  They  felt  that  all  was  right ;  they  knew  that  the 
promise  itself  had  a  deeper  meaning  ;  they  looked  undauntedly 
for  "  a  city  which  hath  foundations.   .   .   ." 

Life  is  not  deception,  but  illusion.  We  distinguish  between 
illusion  and  delusion.  We  may  paint  wood  so  as  to  be  taken 
for  stone,  iron,  or  marble  — this  is  delusion  ;  but  you  ma}'  paint 
a  picture,  in  which  rocks,  trees,  and  sky  are  never  mistaken  for 
wha*  they  seem,  yet  produce  all  the  emotion  which  real  rocks, 


ILLUSION  AND   DELUSION.  815 

trees,  and  sky  would  produce.  This  is  illusion,  and  this  is  the 
painter's  art ;  never  for  one  moment  to  deceive  by  attempted 
imitation,  but  to  produce  a  mental  state  in  which  the  feelings 
are  suggested  which  the  natural  objects  themselves  would 
create. 

To  a  child  the  rainbow  is  a  real  thing  —  substantial  and  pal- 
pable ;  its  limb  rests  on  the  side  of  yonder  hill.  He  believes 
that  he  can  appropriate  it  to  himself  ;  and  when,  instead  of  gems 
and  gold,  hid  in  its  radiant  bow,  he  finds  nothing  but  damp 
mist  —  cold,  dreary  drops  of  disappointment  —  that  disappomt- 
ment  tells  that  his  belief  has  been  delusion. 

To  the  educated  man  that  bow  is  a  blessed  illusion,  yet  it 
never  once  deceives  ;  he  does  not  take  it  for  what  it  is  not ;  he 
does  not  expect  to  make  it  his  own.  He  feels  its  beauty  as  much 
as  the  child  could  feel  it ;  nay,  infinitely  more  — more  even  from 
the  fact  that  he  knows  that  it  will  be  transient ;  but,  besides 
and  beyond  this,  to  him  it  presents  a  deeper  loveliness ;  he 
knows  the  laws  of  light,  and  the  laws  of  the  human  soul  which 
gave  it  being.  He  has  linked  it  with  the  laws  of  the  universe, 
and  with  the  invisible  mind  of  God  ;  and  it  brings  to  him  a 
thrill  of  awe,  and  the  sense  of  a  mysterious,  nameless  beauty, 
of  which  the  child  did  not  conceive.  It  is  illusion  still ;  but  it 
has  fulfilled  the  promise.  In  the  realm  of  spirit,  in  the  tem- 
ple of  the  soul,  it  is  the  same.  All  is  illusion ;  "  but  we  look 
for  a  city  which  hath  foundations  "  ;  and  in  this  the  promise  is 
fulfiUed. 

Life  is  an  education.  The  object  for  which  you  educate  your 
son  is  to  give  him  strength  of  purpose,  self-command,  discipline 
of  mental  energies  ;  but  you  do  not  reveal  to  your  son  this  aim 
of  his  education  ;  3'ou  tell  him  of  his  place  in  his  class,  of  the 
prizes  at  the  end  of  the  year,  of  the  honors  to  be  given  at  col- 
lege. These  are  not  the  true  incentives  to  knowledge  ;  such 
incentives  are  not  the  highest  —  the}'  are  even  mean,  and  par- 
tially injurious ;  yet  these  mean  incentives  stimulate  and  lead 


316  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

on,  from  day  to  day,  and  from  year  to  year,  by  a  process  the 
principle  of  which  the  boy  himself  is  not  aware  of. 

This  is  what  God  does.  His  promises  are  true,  though  illu- 
sive ;  far  truer  than  we  at  first  take  them  to  be.  "We  work  for 
a  mean,  low,  sensual  happiness,  all  the  while  He  is  leading  us 
on,  to  a  spiritual  blessedness,  unfathomably  deep.  This  is  the 
life  of  faith.  We  live  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight.  We  do  not 
preach  that  all  is  disappointment  —  the  dreary  creed  of  senti- 
mentalisra  ;  but  we  preach  that  nothing  here  is  disappointment, 
if  rightly  understood.  We  do  not  comfort  the  poor  man  by  say- 
ing that  the  riches  that  he  has  not  now  he  will  have  hereafter, 
—  the  difference  between  himself  and  the  man  of  wealth  being 
only  this,  that  the  one  has  for  time  what  the  other  will  have  for 
eternity ;  but  what  we  say  is,  that  that  which  you  have  failed 
in  reaping  here,  you  never  will  reap,  if  you  expected  the  har- 
vest of  Canaan.  God  has  no  Canaan  for  His  own  ;  no  milk  and 
honey  for  the  luxury  of  the  senses ;  for  the  city  which  hath 
foundations  is  built  in  the  soul  of  man.  He  in  whom  Godlike 
character  dwells  has  all  the  universe  for  hiB  own. 

Robertson. 


THE  KAVEN. 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  vohnne  of  forgotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber  door  — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah!  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow,  —vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  — sorrow  for  tiie  lost  Lcnore  — 
For  the  rare  and  i-adiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lcnore  — 
Nameless  here  foreverraore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Tlirilled  me  —  flllod  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before •, 


THE   RAVEN.  817 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door;  — 
This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping. 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened  wide  the  door ;  '— 
Darkness  there,  and  nuthing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering.  Tearing 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  darkness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  tlie  whispered  word  "  Lenore?  " 
This  1  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  tlie  word  "  Lenore !  "  — 
Merely  this,  and  notliing  more. 

Back  Into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
*'  Surely,"  said  I,  —  "  surely  tliat  is  something  at  my  window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  tliis  mystery  explore ;  — 
'T  is  the  wind,  and  nothing  more !  " 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore  : 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  an  instant  stopped  or  stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door,  — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber  door,  — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

"  Though  tliy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no 

craven. 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore   ' 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  tlie  Night's  Plutonian  shore !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy  bore ; 


318  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door  — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
Tliat  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered  —  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends  have  flown  before  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store. 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Followed  fast,  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore  — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  'Never  —  nevermore.'" 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust,  and  door ; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

Thus  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 
She  sliall  press,  all,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer; 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 

"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by  these  angels  he  hath 

sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore! 
Quafl"!  0  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  If  bird  or  devil!  - 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  hero  ashore. 


THE  VILLAGE   SCHOOLMASTER.  319 

Desolate  yet  all  uudaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted  — 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  — 
Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead ?  —  tell  me  —  tell  me,  I  implore !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  If  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aiden 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  flend!"  I  shrieked,  up- 
starting — 
"  Get  thee  bacli  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  blaclc  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken!  —  quit  the  l)ust  above  my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  tliy  form  from  off  my  door ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming. 

And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor: 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore !  ^e- 


THE    VILLAGE  SOHOOLMASTEE. 

BESIDE  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  tlae  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofltably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school: 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view : 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
"Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 


820  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

Tlie  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  — 

'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terras  and  tides  presage, 

And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot.  Ooldsmitn, 


THE  AMERICAN  SENATOR  IN  ITALY. 
I. 

/    A  CICA.    Does  ze  scene  please  you,  my  Senator? 
— '— '     Senator.     Very  much  indeed. 

Cica.  Youar  countrymen  haf  tol  me  zey  would  like  to  stay  here 
alloway. 

Sen.     It  is  a  beautiful  place. 

Cica.     Did  you  aiver  see  any  thin  moaire  loafely? 

Sen.     Never. 

Cica.  Holas !  my  Senator,  that  it  is  not  pairmltted  to  moartals  to 
sociate  as  zcy  would  laike. 

Sen.  (aside).  Your  Senator;  how  fond,  how  tender  —  poor  thing! 
poor  thing!     (Aloml.)    I  wish  that  Italy  was  nearer  to  the  States. 

Cica.  How  I  adamiar  youar  style  of  mind,  so  diflerente  from  ze 
Italiana.  You  are  so  strong  —  so  nobile.  Yet  would  I  laike  to  see 
moar  of  zc  poetic  in  you. 

Sen     I  always  loved  poetr)',  marm. 

Cica.  Ah  —  good  —  nais  —  cccelente.  I  am  plees  at  zat.  You 
would  loafe  it  more  cef  you  knew  Italiano.  Your  langua  ccs  not  suf- 
flcicnte  musicalc  for  poatry. 

Sen.     It  is  not  so  soft  a  language  as  the  /-talian. 

Cica.  Ah  —  no — not  so  soft.  Very  well.  And  what  theenka  you 
of  ze  Italiano? 


THE   AMERICAN    SENATOR   IN   ITALY.  321 

Sen.     The  sweetest  language  I  ever  heard  in  all  my  born  days. 

Cica.  Ah,  now  —  you  hev  not  heard  mueh  of  ze  Italiano,  my 
Senator. 

Sen.     I  have  heard  you  speak  often. 

Cica.  Ah,  you  compliment !  I  sot  you  was  aboove  flattera.  What 
Ingelis  poet  do  you  loafe  best? 

Sen.  Poet?  English  poet?  Oh  —  why,  marm,  I  think  Watts  is 
about  the  best  of  the  lot. 

Cica.  Watt?  Was  he  a  poet?  I  did  not  know  zat.  He  who  in- 
vented ze  stim-injaiue?  And  yet  if  he  was  a  poet  it  is  naturale  zat 
you  loafe  him  best. 

Sen.     Steam-engine?     Oh,  no!     This  one  was  a  minister. 

Cica.  A  meeneestalre?  Ah!  an  abbe?  I  know  him  not.  Yet  I 
haf  read  mos  of  all  youar  poets. 

Sen.  He  made  up  hymns,  marm,  and  psalms  —  for  instance : 
"Watt's  Divine  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs." 

Cica.  Songs !  Spirituelle !  Ah,  I  mus  at  once  procuaire  ze  works 
of.  Watt,  which  was  f  avorit  poet  of  my  Senator. 

Sen.  A  lady  of  such  intelligence  as  you  would  like  the  poet  Watts. 
He  is  the  best  known  by  far  of  all  our  poets. 

Cica.  What !  better  zau  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Bairon?  You  much 
surprass  me. 

Sen.  Better  known  and  better  loved  than  the  whole  lot.  Why,  his 
poetry  is  known  by  heart  through  all  England  and  America. 

Cica.  Merciful  Heaven!  what  you  tell  me !  ees  eet  possibl !  An 
yet  he  is  not  known  here  efen  by  name.  It  would  please  me  mooch, 
my  Senator,  to  haire  you  make  one  quotatioue.  Know  you  Watt?  Tell 
me  some  words  of  his  which  I  may  remembaire. 

Sen.     I  have  a  shocking  bad  memory. 

Cica.  Bad  memora!  Oh,  but  you  remember- someth in,  zis  most 
beautiful  charm  ualt  —  you  haf  a  nobile  soul  —  you  must  be  affecta  by 
beauty  —  by  ze  ideal.     Make  for  me  one  quotatione. 

Sen.     You  will  not  let  me  refuse  you  anything. 

Cica.  Aha !  you  are  vera  willin  to  refuse.  It  is  difficulty  for  me 
to  excitare  youar  regards.  You  are  fill  with  the  grands  ideas.  But 
come  —  will  you  spik  for  me  som  from  your  f avorit  Watt? 

Sen.    Well,  if  you  wish  it  so  much. 

Cica.  Ah  — I  do  wish  it  so  much!  Begin.  Behold  me.  I  listeu. 
I  heai*  everysin,  and  will  remember  it  f  orava. 


322  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Sen.    "  My  willing  soul  would  stay  —  " 

Cica.  Stop  one  moment;  — I  weesh  to  learn  it  from  you.  "Ma 
willina  sol  wooda  sta  —  " 

Sen.     "  In  such  a  frame  as  this." 

Cica.  "  Een  socha  framas  zees."  Wait —  "  Ma  willina  sol  wooda 
sta  in  socha  framas  zees."  Ah,  appropriat!  but  could  I  hope  zat  you 
were  true  to  zose  lines,  my  Senator?     Well? 

Sen.     "  And  sit  and  sing  herself  away." 

Cica.     "  Ansit  ansin  hassaf  awai." 

Sen.     I  —  Ehem !     I  forget. 

Cica.    Forget?    Impossibll 

Sen.    I  do,  really. 

Cica.  Ah  now !  Forget?  I  see  by  your  face  —  you  desave.  Say 
on.    Have  you  fear?    Ah,  cruel! 

Sen.     "  To  everlasting  bliss  "  —  there ! 

Cica.  "To  affarlastin  blees  thar."  Stop.  I  repeat  It  all:  "My 
willina  sol  wooda  sta  in  socha  frame  as  zees,  ansit  ansin  hassaf  awai 
to  affarlastin  blees  thar."    Am  I  right? 

Sen.    Yes. 

Cica.  I  knew  you  were  a  poetic  sola.  You  air  honesto  —  true  — 
you  cannot  desave.  When  you  spik  I  can  beliv  you.  Ah,  my  Senator  1 
an  you  can  spik  zis  poetry  !  —  at  soch  a  toirae !  I  nefare  knew  before 
zat  you  so  impassione !  —  an  you  air  so  artaful !  You  breeng  ze  con- 
f  ersazione  to  beauty  —  to  poatry  —  to  ze  poet  Watt  —  so  you  may  spik 
verses  raos  impassione!  Ah!  what  do  you  mean?  Santissima  madre I 
how  I  wish  you  spik  Italiano. 

Sen.  {aside).  How  that  poor  thing  does  love  me!  Law  bless  It! 
she  can't  help  it—  can't  help  it  nohow.  She  is  a  goner-  and  what  can 
I  do?    I  '11  have  to  leave  Florence. 

Cica.     What  ails  my  Senator? 

Sen.  Why  the  fact  is,  marm—  I  feel  sad  —  at  leaving  Florence.  I 
must  go  shortly.  My  wife  has  written  summoning  me  home.  The 
children  are  down  with  tlie  measles. 

Cica.  But  my  Senator  —  did  you  not  say  you  wooda  seeng  yousellef 
away  to  affarlastoon  bclocs? 

Sen.     Oil,  manii,  it  was  a  quotation  —  only  a  quotation. 

II. 
Austrian  General.     Uo  you  know  La  Cicaf 
Sen.     I  do. 


THE   AMERICAN   SENATOR   IN   ITALY.  323 

Gen.     You  know  her  well?     You  are  one  of  her  intimate  friends? 

Sen.     Am  I? 

Gen.    Are  you  not? 

Sen.  I  am  friendly  with  her.  She  is  an  estimable  woman,  with 
much  feeling  and  penetration. 

Gen.  "Well,  Sir,  j'ou  may  as  well  confess.  "We  know  you,  Sir.  "We 
know  you.  You  are  one  of  the  chosen  associates  of  that  infaraou.s 
Garibaldian  plotter  and  assassin,  whose  hotel  is  the  hot-bed  of  con- 
spiracy and  revolution.  "We  know  you.  Do  you  dare  to  come  here 
and  deny  it? 

Sen.  I  did  not  come  here;  I  was  brought.  I  do  not  deny  that  you 
know  me,  though  I  have  n't  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you.  But  I  do 
deny  that  I  am  the  associate  of  conspirators. 

Gen.  Are  you  not  the  American  whom  La  Cica  so  particularly  dis- 
tinguished with  her  favor? 

Sen.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  was  partial  to  me  —  some- 
what. 

Gen.  He  confesses !  You  came  from  her  to  this  place,  communi- 
cating on  the  way  with  her  emissaries. 

Sen.  I  communicated  on  the  way  with  none  but  brigands  among 
the  mountains.  If  they  were  her  emissaries  I  wish  her  joy  of  them. 
My  means  of  communication  was  an  iron  crow-bar ;  and  my  remaxku 
left  some  deep  impression  on  them,  I  do  believe. 

Gen.  Tell  me  now  —  and  tell  me  truly.  To  whom  are  you  sent  lu 
this  city? 

Sen.     To  no  one. 

Gen.     Sir !  I  warn  you  that  I  will  not  be  trifled  with. 

Sen.  I  tell  you,  I  tell  you  that  I  have  come  here  to  no  one.  What 
more  can  I  say? 

Gen.     You  must  confess. 

Sen.     I  have  nothing  to  confess. 

Gen.  Sir!  you  have  much  to  confess,  and  I  will  ^NTlng  it  out  of 
you.  Beware  how  you  trifle  with  my  patience.  If  you  wi.sh  to  regain 
your  liberty  confess  at  once,  and  you  may  escape  your  just  pmiish- 
ment.     But  if  you  refuse,  I  '11  shut  you  up  in  a  dungeon  for  ten  years! 

Sen,     You  will  do  no  such  thing. 

Gen.     "What!     "Won't  I? 

Sen.  You  will  not.  On  the  contrary,  you  will  have  to  make  apolo 
gies  for  these  insults. 


824  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Gen.    I !  —  Apologies !    Insults. 

Sen.  You  have  arrested  us  on  a  false  charge,  based  on  some  slan- 
derous or  stupid  information  of  some  of  your  infernal  spies.  What 
right  have  you  to  pry  into  the  private  afl'airs  of  an  American  traveller? 
"We  have  nothing  to  do  with  you. 

Oen.  You  are  associated  v?ith  conspirators.  You  are  charged  with 
treasonable  correspondence  with  rebels.  You  coimtenanced  revolu- 
tion in  Florence.  You  openly  took  part  with  Republicans.  You  are  a 
notorious  friend  of  La  Cica.  And  you  came  here  witli  the  intention 
of  fomenting  treason  in  Venice ! 

Sen.  Whoever  told  you  that,  told  miserable  lies  — most  horrid  lies. 
I  am  no  emissary  of  any  part3^     I  am  a  private  traveller. 

Gen.  Sir,  we  have  correspondents  in  Florence  on  whom  we  can 
tely  better  than  on  j'ou.     They  watched  you. 

Sen.  Then  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  dismiss  those  corre- 
spondents and  get  rogues  who  have  half  an  idea. 

Gen.  Sir,  I  tell  you  that  they  watched  you  well.  You  had  better 
confess  all.  Your  antecedents  in  Florence  are  known.  You  are  in  a 
position  of  imminent  danger.     I  tell  you  —  beware  ! 

Sen.  Then  you,  General,  I  tell  you  —  beware  !  Do  you  know  who 
you've  got  hold  of?  No  conspirator;  no  contemptible  7-talian  ban- 
dit, or  Dutchman  either ;  but  an  American  citizen.  Your  government 
has  already  tried  tlie  temper  of  Americans  on  one  or  two  remarkable 
occasions.  Don't  try  it  on  a  third  time,  and  don't  try  it  on  with  me. 
Since  you  want  to  know  who  I  am,  I  '11  tell  you.  I,  Sir,  am  an  Ameri- 
can Senator.  I  take  an  active  and  prominent  part  in  the  government 
of  that  great  and  glorious  country.  I  represent  a  constituency  of 
several  hundred  thousand.  You  tell  me  to  beicare.  I  tell  you  — 
Beware  !  for,  if  you  don't  let  me  go,  you  '11  have  to  give  me  up  at  the 
cannon's  mouth.  If  you  don't  let  me  off  by  evening,  I  won't  go  at  all 
till  I  am  delivered  up  with  humble  and  ample  apologies,  both  to  us  anil 
to  our  country,  whom  you  have  insulted  in  our  persons. 

Gen.     Sir,  you  are  bold  ! 

Sen.  Bold !  Send  for  the  American  Consul  of  this  city  and  see  if 
he  don't  corroborate  this.  But  you  had  better  make  haste ;  for  if  you 
subject  me  to  further  disgrace  it  will  be  the  worse  for  your  govern- 
ment, and  particularly  for  yon,  my  friend.  You  '11  have  the  town  bat- 
tered down  about  your  ears.  Don't  get  another  nation  down  on  you, 
and  above  all,  don't  let  that  nation  be  the  American.     What  I  tell  you 


THE   AMERICAN   SENATOR  IN   ITALY.  325 

is  the  solemn  truth,  and  if  you  don't  mind  it  you  will  know  it  some 
day  to  your  sorrow. 

Gen.    Let  the  Consul  be  called.     [Enter  American  Consul.] 

Gen.     Do  you  know  the  prisoner? 

Consul.     I  do. 

Gen.  He  is  here  inider  a  very  heavy  accusation.  I  have  well  sub- 
stantiated charges  by  which  he  is  implicated  in  treason  and  conspiracy. 
He  has  been  connected  with  Revolutionists  of  the  worst  stamp  in 
Florence,  and  there  is  strong  proof  that  he  has  come  here  to  commu- 
nicate witli  Revolutionists  in  this  city. 

Con.     Who  accuses  him  of  this?     Are  th^y  here? 

Gen.  No;  but  they  have  written  from  Florence  warning  me  of  his 
journey  here. 

Con.    Does  the  prisoner  confess? 

Gen.  Of  course  not.  He  denies.  He  requested  me  to  send  for  you. 
I  don't  want  to  bo  unjust;  so  if  you  have  anything  to  say,  say  on. 

Con.     These  charges  are  impossible. 

Qen.    Impossible? 

Con.  He  is  altogether  a  different  man  from  what  you  suppose.  He 
is  an  eminent  member  of  the  American  Senate.  Any  charges  made 
against  one  like  him  Avill  have  to  be  well  substantiated ;  and  any 
injury  done  to  him  will  be  dangerous  in  the  highest  degree.  Unless 
you  have  undeniable  proofs  of  his  guilt,  it  will  be  best  to  free  him  at 
once  —  or  else  — 

Gen.     Or  else  what? 

Con.     Or  else  there  will  be  very  grave  complications. 

Gen.  (to  Senator).  How  does  it  happen  that  you  were  so  particu- 
larly intimate  with  all  the  Revolutionists  in  Florence,  and  an  habitue 
of  La  Cica's  salon?  that  your  mission  was  well  known  throughout 
the  city?  that  you  publicly  acknowledged  the  Florentine  rebellion  in  a 
speech?  that  the  people  carried  you  home  in  triumph?  and  that  before 
leaving  you  received  private  instructions  from  La  Cica? 

Sen.  To  your  questions  I  will  reply  in  brief :  First,  I  am  a  free 
and  independent  citizen  of  the  groat  and  glorious  American  Republic. 
If  I  associated  with  Revolutionists  in  Florence,  I  did  so  because  I  am 
accustomed  to  choose  my  own  society,  and  not  to  recognize  any  law 
or  any  master  that  can  forbid  my  doing  so.  I  deny,  however,  that  I 
was  in  any  way  connected  with  plots,  rebellions,  or  conspiracies. 
Secondly,  I  was  friendly  with  the  Countess  because  I  considered  her 


326  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

a  most  remarkably  fine  woman,  and  because  she  showed  a  disposition 
to  be  friendly  with  me  —  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  Thirdly,  I 
confess  I  made  a  speech,  but  what  of  that?  It 's  not  the  first  time, 
by  a  long  chalk.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  ' '  acknowledging. " 
As  a  private  citizen  I  congratulated  them  on  their  success,  and  would 
do  so  again.  If  a  crowd  calls  on  me  for  a  speech,  I  'm  there.  The 
people  of  Florence  dragged  me  home  in  a  carriage.  Well,  I  don't 
know  why  they  did  so.  I  can't  help  it  if  people  will  take  possession 
of  me  and  pull  me  about.  Fourthly,  and  lastly,  I  had  an  interview 
with  the  Countess,  had  I?  "Well,  is  it  wrong  for  a  man  to  I)id  good  by 
to  a  friend?  I  ask  you,  what  upon  earth  do  j'ou  mean  by  such  a 
charge  as  that?    Do  you  take  me  for  a  puling  infant? 

Gen.  On  that  occasion  she  taught  you  some  mysterious  words 
which  were  to  be  repeated  among  the  Revolutionists  here. 

Sen.     Never  did  anything  of  the  kind.     That 's  a  full-blown  flctioa 

Gen.     I  have  the  very  words. 

Sen.     That 's  impossible.     You  've  got  hold  of  the  wrong  man. 

Gen.  I  will  read  them.  It  is  a  mysterious  language  with  no  appar- 
ent meaning,  nor  have  I  been  able  to  find  the  key  to  it  in  any  way. 
It  is  very  skilfully  made,  for  all  the  usual  tests  of  cipher  writing  fail 
in  this.  The  person  who  procured  it  did  not  get  near  enough  till  the 
latter  part  of  the  interview,  so  that  he  gained  no  explanation  what- 
ever from  the  conversation.  Listen  :  "  Ma  ouilUna  sola  ouda  ste  ensoce 
fremas  dis  ansit  ausin  assalf  a  cue  tu  affa  lastinna  belts." 

Sen.  Oh  dear!  Oh  de-ar !  OhcEK-.Mi!  Oil!  Will  you  allow  me 
to  look  at  the  paper?    I  will  not  injure  it  at  all. 

Gen.     Certainly. 

Sen.  You  see,  gentlemen,  the  Florence  correspondent  has  been  too 
sharp.  I  can  explain  all  this  af,  once.  I  was  with  the  Countess,  and 
we  got  talking  of  poetry.  Now,  I  don't  know  any  more  about  poetry 
than  a  horse. 

Gen.     Well? 

Sen.  Well,  she  insisted  on  my  making  a  quotation.  I  had  to  give 
In.     The  only  one  I  could  think  of  was  a  line  or  two  from  Watts. 

Gen.     Walts?    Ah  !  I  don't  know  hiiu. 

Sen.  He  was  a  minister  —  a  parson.  So  I  said  it  to  her,  and  she 
repeated  it.  These  friends  of  j'ours,  General,  have  taken  it  down,  bat 
their  spellln'  is  a  little  unusual.     Listen.     Here  is  the  key :  — 

"  My  wllUns?  Houl  would  stny  in  such  n  fniiiic  as  this. 
And  sit  aud  uliig  bureclf  away  lo  ovvrluatiug  bliss." 


TRAY.  827 

'Gen.  Give  these  gentlemen  our  apologies.  In  times  of  trouble,  when 
States  have  to  be  held  subject  to  martial  law,  proceedings  are  abrupt. 
Their  own  good  sense  will,  I  trust  enable  them  to  appreciate  the 
difficulty  of  our  position. 

Arranged  as  a  dialogue  from  De  MUlt. 


ENGLAND  AND  SWITZERLAND. 

rpWO  Voices  are  there,  one  Is  of  the  Sea, 
-*~      One  of  the  Mountains,  each  a  mighty  voice: 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 
There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him,  —  but  hast  vainly  striven: 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

—  Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft ; 

Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left-^ 
For,  high-soul'd  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore. 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  Thee  I 

Wordsworth. 


TEAY. 

SENG  me  a  hero.     Quench  my  thirst  of  soul,  ye  bards! 
Quoth  Bard  the  first:  "Sir  Olaf,  the  good  knight,  did  don  his 
helm  and  eke  his  habergeon,"  —  Sir  Olaf  and  his  bard. 

*'  That  sin-scathed  brow"  (quoth  Bard  the  second),  "  that  eye  wide 
ope  as  though  Fate  beckoned  my  hero  to  some  steep,  beneath  which 
precipice  smiled  tempting  Death"  — You  too,  without  your  host  have 
reckoned. 

"A  beggar-child"  (let's  hear  this  third)  "sat  on  a  quay's  edge; 
like  a  bird  sang  to  herself  at  careless  play,  and  fell  into  the  stream. 
•  Dismay !  help,  you  the  standers-by  ! '  None  stirred.  By-standers 
reason,  think  of  wives  and  children  ere  they  risk  their  lives.  Over  the 
balustrade  has  bounded  a  mere  Instinctive  dog,  and  pounced  plumb  on 
the  prize.     '  How  well  he  dives ! ' 

"'Up  he  comes  with  the  child,  see,  tight  in  mouth,  alive  too, 
clutched  from  quite  a  depth  of  ten  feet  —  twelve,  I  bet!     Good  dog! 


828  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

"  'What,  off  again?  There's  yet  another  child  to  save?  All  right! 
How  strange  we  saw  no  other  fall !  It 's  instinct  in  the  animal.  Good 
dog! 

"'But  he's  a  long  while  under;  if  he  got  drowned,  I  should  not 
wonder  —  strong  current,  that  against  the  wall! 

"  'Here  he  comes,  holds  in  mouth  this  time  —  what  may  the  thing 
be?  Well,  that's  prime!  Now,  did  you  ever?  Reason  reigns  in  man 
alone,  since  all  Tray's  pains  have  fished  —  the  child's  doll  from  the 
slime.' 

"  And  so,  amid  the  laughter  gay,  trotted  my  hero  off,  —  old  Tray,  — 
till  somebody,  prerogatived  with  reason,  reasoned,  '  Why  he  dived, 
his  brain  would  show  us,  I  should  say.  John,  go  and  catch,  —  or,  if 
needs  be,  purchase  that  animal  for  me.  By  vivisection,  at  expense  of 
half  an  hour  and  eighteen  pence,  how  brain  secretes  dog's  soul,  we  '11 

^^® '  Browning. 


PEELUDE  TO  DEAMATIO  IDYLS. 

*'  You  are  sick,  that's  sure,"  they  say.  "  Sick  of  what?  "  they  dis- 
agree. '"Tis  tlie  brain,"  thinks  Doctor  A;  "'Tis  the  heart,"  holds 
Doctor  B.  "The  liver, —  my  life  I'd  lay."  "The  lungs!"  "The 
lights ! " 

"Ah  me!  So  ignorant  of  man's  whole  of  bodily  organs  plain  to 
see,  —  so  sage  and  certain,  frank  and  free,  about  what 's  under  lock 
and  kev — man's  soul." 


Browniitg. 


THE  INQUIEY. 

rpELL  me,  ye  wing&d  winds,  that  round  my  pathway  roar, 
-'-      Do  ye  not  know  some  spot  where  mortals  weep  no  more? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell,  some  valley  in  the  west. 
Whore,  free  from  toil  and  pain,  the  weai-y  soul  may  rest? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  wliisper  low. 
And  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answered  —  "  No." 

Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep,  whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Know'st  though  some  favored  spot,  some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find  the  bliss  for  wliich  he  sighs,  — 
Where  sorrow  never  lives,  and  friendship  never  dies? 
The  loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual  How, 
Stopped  for  a  while,  and  sighed  to  answer  —  "  No." 


THE  DKEAM  OF   CLARENCE.  329 

And  thon,  serenest  moon,  that,  with  such  lovely  face, 

Dost  look  upon  the  e;ii'th,  asleep  in  night's  embrace; 

Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round,  hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot, 

Where  miserable  man  might  And  a  happier  lot? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  Avoe, 
And  a  voice,  sweet,  but  sad,  responded  —  "  No." 

Tell  me,  my  secret  soul ;  — oh !  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Is  there  no  resting-place  from  sorrow,  sin,  and  death?  — 
Is  there  no  happy  spot,  where  mortals  may  be  blessed. 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm,  and  weariness  a  rest? 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals  given. 
Waved  their  bright  wings,  and  whispered  —  "Yea,  in  Heaven !  * 

Charles  Mackay. 

THE  DREAM  OF  CLAEENOE. 

"DBAKENBUBY.    Why  looks  your  Grace  so  heavily  to-day? 

Clarence.     Oh,  I  have  passed  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  feai-ful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  't  were  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days ; 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time ! 

Brak.     What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?     1  pray  you,  tell  me. 
Clar.     Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the  Tower, 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy; 
And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster; 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches.     Thence  we  looked  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
That  had  befallen  us.     As  wc  passed  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 
0  heaven !     Methought,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  ^Yaters  in  mine  ears ! 
What  ugly  sights  of  death  within  mine  eyes  I 


330  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  Avrecks ; 

A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnaw'd  upon : 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl. 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 

All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea : 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls ;  and  in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept. 

As  't  were  in  scorn  of  eyes,  reflecting  gems, 

That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 

And  mocked  the  dead  bones  tliat  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.     Had  you  such  leisure,  in  the  time  of  death. 
To  gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  the  deep? 

Clar.    Methought  I  had;  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost :  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  find  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air ; 
But  smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.     Awaked  you  not  with  this  sore  agony? 

Clar.     No,  no !  my  dream  was  lengthened  after  life; 
Oh,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  pass'd,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 
With  that  grim  ferryman  which  poets  write  of, 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick, 
Who  cried  aloud,  "  Wliat  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  tJiis  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence?" 
And  so  he  vanish'd.     Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood,  and  he  shrieked  out  aloud, 
•'  Clarence  is  come,  — false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence, '■- 
That  stahb'd  me  in  the  field  by  Teiokshury  ! 
Seize  on  him.  Furies  t  take  him  to  your  torments  !"* 
With  that,  methought  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environed  rac,  and  howl5d  In  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  Avith  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  Avaked,  and,  for  a  season  after, 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  In  hell; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream 


THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE.  88] 

Brak.     No  marvel,  lord,  that  it  affrighted  you; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.     Ah  !  Bralcenbury,  I  have  done  those  things, 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul, 
For  Edward's  sake;  and  see  how  he  requites  me  I  — 

0  God  I  if  my  deep  praj'ers  cannot  appease  Thee, 
But  Thou  wilt  be  aveng'd  on  my  misdeeds, 

Yet  execute  Thy  wrath  on  me  alone  : 

Oh,  spare  my  guiltless  wife,  and  my  poor  children!  — 

1  prithee,  Brakenbury,  stay  by  me; 

My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

Brak.    I  will,  my  lord ;  God  give  your  Grace  good  rest !  — 

[Clarence  reposes  himself  on  a  chair. 
Sorrow  breaks  seasons  and  reposing  hours. 
Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noon-tide  night. 
Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories. 
An  outward  honor  for  an  inward  toil : 
And,  for  uufelt  imaginations. 
They  often  feei  a  world  of  restless  cares : 
So  that,  between  their  titles  and  low  name, 
There  's  nothing  differs  but  the  outward  fame. 

SAakmpearn. 


THE  BAILOR'S  WIFE. 


A    ND  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true?  and  are  ye  sure  he 's  weel? 
-^--*-     Is  this  a  time  to  tliinlc  o'  wark?  yc  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel ; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread,  when  Colin 's  at  the  door? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I  '11  to  the  quay,  and  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there 's  nae  luck  about  the  house,  there 's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house  when  our  guderaan  "s  awa'. 

And  gle  to  me  my  bigonet,  my  bishop's  satin  gown ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife  that  Colin 's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on,  my  stockins  pearly  bluer 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman,  for  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside,  put  on  the  muckle  pot; 

Gle  little  Kate  her  button  gown  and  Jock  his  Sunday  coat; 

And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes,  their  hoce  as  A^hiteas  snaw; 

It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman,  for  he's  been  long  awa. 


332  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

There 's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop  been  fed  this  month  and  maiT; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  neclis  about,  that  Colin  weel  may  fare ; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean,  gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared,  when  he  was  far  awa? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech,  his  breath  like  caller  air; 

His  veiy  foot  has  music  in 't  as  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again?  and  will  I  hear  hhn  speak? 

I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought,  in  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet ! 

If  Colin 's  weel,  and  weel  content,  I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave : 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae,  I  'm  blest  aboon  the  lave :  ■ 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again,  and  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought,  in  troth  I  'ra  like  to  greet. 
For  there 's  nae  luck  about  the  house,  there 's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There 's  little  pleasure  in  the  house  when  our  gudeman  's  awa', 

Mickle. 


THE  STAGE-OOACH. 


TTTHEN  the  coach  came  roiind  at  last,  with  -'  London " 
^  '  blazoned  in  letters  of  gold  upon  the  boot,  it  gave  Tom 
such  a  turn,  that  he  was  half  disposed  to  run  away.  But  he 
did  n't  do  it ;  for  he  took  his  seat  upon  the  box  instead,  and 
looking  down  upon  tlie  four  grays,  felt  as  if  he  were  another 
gray  himself,  or,  at  all  events,  a  part  of  the  turn-out ;  and 
was  quite  confused  by  the  novelty  and  splendor  of  his  situa- 
tion. 

And  really  it  might  have  confused  a  less  modest  man  than 
Tom  to  find  himself  sitting  next  that  coachman  ;  for  of  all  the 
swells  that  ever  flourished  a  whip,  professionally,  he  might  have 
been  elected  emperor.  He  did  n't  handle  his  gloves  like  another 
man,  but  put  them  on — even  when  he  was  standing  on  the 
pavement,  quite  detached  from  tlie  coach  —  as  if  the  four  grays 
were,  somehow  or  other,  at  the  ends  of  the  fingers.  It  was  the 
same  with  his  hat.  He  did  things  with  his  hat,  which  nothing 
but  :i II  unlimited  knowledge  of  horses  and  the  wildest  freedom 
of  the  road  could  ever  have   made  him  perfect  in.     Valuable 


THE   STAGE-COACH.  333 

little  parcels  were  brought  to  him  with  particular  instructions, 
and  he  pitched  them  into  his  hat,  and  stuck  it  on  again,  as  if 
the  laws  of  gravity  did  not  admit  of  such  an  event  as  its  being 
knocked  off  or  blown  off,  and  nothing  like  an  accident  could 
befall  it.  The  guard  too !  Seventy  breezy  miles  a  day  were 
written  in  his  very  whiskers.  His  manners  were  a  canter  ;  his 
conversation  a  round  trot.  He  was  a  fast  coach  upon  a  down- 
hill turnpike  road  ;  he  was  all  pace.  A  wagon  could  n't  have 
moved  slowly,  with  that  guard  and  his  key-bugle  on  the  top 
of  it. 

These  were  all  foreshadowings  of  London,  Tom  thought,  as 
he  sat  upon  the  box,  and  looked  about  him.  Such  a  coachman 
and  such  a  guard  never  could  have  existed  between  Salisbury 
and  any  other  place  ;  the  coach  was  none  of  your  steady-going, 
yokel  coaches,  but  a  swaggering,  rakish,  dissipated,  London 
coach  ;  up  all  night,  and  lying  by  all  day,  and  leading  a  terrible 
life.  It  cared  no  more  for  Salisbury  tlian  if  it  had  been  a 
hamlet.  It  rattled  noisily  through  the  best  streets,  defied  tiie 
cathedral,  took  the  worst  corners  sharpest,  went  cutting  in 
everywhere,  making  everything  get  out  of  its  way ;  and  spun 
along  the  open  country-road,  blowing  a  lively  defiance  out  of 
its  key-bugle,  as  its  last  glad  parting  legacy. 

It  was  a  charming  evening.  Mild  and  bright.  And  even 
with  the  weight  upon  his  mind  which  arose  out  of  the  immensity 
and  uncertainty  of  London,  Tom  could  not  resist  the  captivating 
sense  of  rapid  motion  through  the  pleasant  air.  The  four  grays 
skimmed  along,  as  if  they  liked  it  quite  as  well  as  Tom  did  ;  the 
bugle  was  in  as  high  spirits  as  the  grays  ;  the  coachman  chimed 
in  sometimes  with  his  voice ;  the  wheels  hummed  cheerfully  in 
unison ;  the  brass-work  on  the  harness  was  an  orchestra  of  little 
bells  ;  and  thus  as  they  went  clinking,  jingling,  rattling  smoothly 
on,  the  whole  concern,  from  the  buckles  of  the  leaders'  coupling- 
reins  to  the  handle  of  the  hind  boot,  was  one  great  instrument 
of  music. 


334  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Yoho !  past  hedges,  gates,  and  trees  ;  past  cottages  and  bams, 
and  people  going  home  from  work.  Yoho  !  past  donkey-chaises, 
drawn  aside  into  the  ditch,  and  empty  carts  with  rampant 
horses,  whipped  up  at  a  bound  upon  the  little  water-course,  and 
held  by  struggling  carters  close  to  the  five-barred  gate,  until  the 
coach  had  passed  the  narrow  turning  in  the  road.  Yoho !  by 
churches  dropped  down  by  themselves  in  quiet  nooks,  rrith 
rustic  burial-grounds  about  them,  where  the  graves  are  green, 
and  daisies  sleep  —  for  it  is  evening  —  on  the  bosoms  of  the 
dead.  Yoho  !  past  streams,  in  which  the  cattle  cool  their  feet, 
and  where  the  rushes  grow ;  past  paddock-fences,  farms  and 
rick-yards ;  past  last  year's  stacks,  cut,  slice  by  slice,  away, 
and  showing,  in  the  waning  light,  like  ruined  gables,  old  and 
brown.  Yoho !  down  the  pebbly  dip,  and  through  the  merry 
water-splash,  and  up  at  a  canter  to  the  level  road  again.  Yoho ! 
Yoho! 

Yoho !  among  the  gathering  shades  ;  making  of  no  account 
the  deep  reflections  of  the  trees,  but  scampering  on  through 
light  and  darkness,  all  the  same,  as  if  the  light  of  London,  fifty 
miles  away,  were  quite  enough  to  travel  by,  and  some  to  spare. 
Yoho !  beside  the  village  green,  where  cricket-players  linger  3'et, 
and  every  little  indentation  made  in  the  fresh  grass  by  bat  or 
wicket,  ball  or  player's  foot,  sheds  out  its  perfume  on  the  night. 
Away  with  four  fresh  horses  from  the  Bald-faced  Stag,  where 
topers  congregate  about  the  door  admiring  ;  and  the  last  team, 
with  traces  hanging  loose,  go  roaming  off  towards  the  pond, 
until  obser\'ed  and  shouted  after  by  a  dozen  throats,  while  vol- 
unteering boys  pursue  them.  Now  with  the  clattering  of  hoofs 
and  striking  out  of  fiery  sparks,  across  the  old  stone  bridge,  and 
down  again  into  the  shadow}-  road,  and  through  the  open  gate, 
and  far  away,  away,  into  tlie  wold.     Yoho ! 

See  the  bright  moon  !  High  up  before  we  know  it:  making 
the  earth  reflect  the  objects  on  its  breast  like  water.  Hedges, 
trees,  low  cottages,  church  steeples,  blighted  stumps  and  flour- 


THE  STAGE-COACH.  535 

Ishing  joung  slips,  have  all  grown  vain  upon  the  sudden,  and 
mean  to  contemplate  their  own  fair  images  till  morning.  The 
poplars  yonder  rustle,  that  their  quivering  leaves  may  see  them- 
selves upon  the  ground.  Not  so  the  oak ;  trembling  does  not 
become  him;  and  he  watches  himself  in  his  stout  old  burly 
steadfastness,  without  the  motion  of  a  twig.  The  moss-grown 
gate,  ill-poised  upon  its  creaking  hinges,  crippled  and  decayed, 
swings  to  and  fro  before  its  glass  like  some  fantastic  dowager ; 
while  our  own  ghostly  likeness  travels  on,  Yoho  !  Yoho  !  through 
ditch  and  brake,  upon  the  ploughed  land  and  the  smooth,  along 
the  steep  hillside  and  steeper  wall,  as  if  it  were  a  phantom- 
hunter. 

Clouds  too  !  And  a  mist  upon  the  hollow  !  Not  a  dull  fog 
that  hides  it,  but  a  light  airy  gauze-like  mist,  which  in  our  eyes 
of  modest  admiration  gives  a  new  charm  to  the  beauties  it  is 
spread  before  :  as  real  ga':ze  has  done  ere  now,  and  would 
again,  so  please  you,  though  we  were  the  Pope.  Yoho  !  Why, 
now  we  travel  like  the  moon  herself.  Hiding  this  minute  in  a 
grove  of  trees,  next  minute  in  a  patch  of  vapor ;  emerging  now 
upon  our  broad  clear  course  ;  withdrawing  now,  but  always  dash- 
ing on,  our  journey  is  a  counterpart  of  hers.  Yoho  !  A  match 
against  the  moon ! 

The  beauty  of  the  night  is  hardly  felt,  when  day  comes 
leaping  up.  Yoho !  Two  stages  and  the  country  roads  are 
almost  changed  to  a  continuous  street.  Yoho !  past  market 
gardens,  rows  of  houses,  villas,  crescents,  terraces,  and  squares ; 
past  wagons,  coaches,  carts ;  past  early  workmen,  late  strag- 
glers, drunken  men,  and  sober  carriers  of  loads  ;  past  brick  and 
mortar  in  its  every  shape  ;  and  in  among  the  rattling  pavements, 
where  a  jaunty-scat  upon  a  coach  is  not  so  easy  to  preserve  ! 
Yoho  I  down  countless  turnings,  and  through  countless  mazy 
ways,  until  an  old  inn  yard  is  gained,  and  Tom  Pinch,  getting 
down,  quite  stunned  and  giddy,  is  in  London. 

From  Martin  ChueelewU.  JHcJkent. 


S3S  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

THE  lONSTEEL  BOY. 

fT^HE  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 
-*-     In  the  ranks  of  death  you  '11  find  lam, 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"  Land  of  song !  "  said  the  warrior  bard, 

' '  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee !  " 

The  minstrel  fell !  — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under ; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asimder ; 
And  said,  ' '  No  chains  shall  sully  thee. 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery ; 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery ! " 


Moore. 


MICE  AT  PLAY. 
TjlOUE- children  sat  around  a  wood-fire,  in  an  old-fashioned  country- 
-'-  house.  The  red  embers  blazed  up  mei-rily,  and  showed  four 
flushed  little  faces,  four  Aery  tangled  heads  of  hair,  eight  bright,  merry 
eyes,  and  —  I  regret  extremely  to  add  —  eight  very  dirty  little  hands, 
belonging,  respectively,  to  Bess,  Bob,  Archie,  and  Tom.  Mamma  was 
away,  you  may  be  sure.  If  she  were  at  home,  the  children  would  have 
made  a  very  different  appearance.  O  yes,  indeed,  quite  and  entirely 
different ! 

The  round  table  was  wheeled  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  the  student- 
lamp  In  the  centre  shed  its  light  on  Tom's  letter,  which  he  was  writing 
to  his  mother.  Archie  was  leaning  back  in  the  large  chair;  his  arm, 
which  he  had  broken  in  riding  the  trick-mule  of  the  circus  the  day 
before,  was  in  a  splint;  b^t  judging  from  the  rapid  disappearance  of 
the  gingerbread  on  the  plate  near  him,  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  new  elder, 
trick-mules,  or  broken  arms  seriously  impair  the  appetite.  "  Bess,  stop 
jogging  the  table !     How  on  earth  can  a  fellow  write  with  you  around?  " 

*'  Read  what  yon  'vc  written,"  said  Bess. 

"  Yes,  do,"  chiined  in  Archie.  They  were  both  anxious  toknow  what 
account  their  mother  would  receive  of  their  performance.     "  Wait  till 


MICE  AT  PLAY.  337 

It 's  done,"  answered  Tom.  Writing  a  letter  was  no  joke  for  Thomas 
Uradley,  junior. 

"  How  on  earth  do  you  spell  circus?"  he  asked. 

•' S-u-r-k-e-ss,"  answered  Bess,  pi'oraptly.  "  No  you  don't !  "  cried 
Tom.     "  I  know  better." 

"If  you  know  so  much,  why  do  you  ask?"  retorted  Bess.  "Oh, 
come,  Bess !  do  think,  can't  you?  " 

"  There  is  a  c  in  it,"  put  in  Archie;  "  for  I  saw  the  big  red-and-blue 
posters  in  the  village,  and  I  know  there  was  a  c  in  circus."  "Then 
it's  c-i-r-k-i-s,"  said  Bess. 

"Yes;  I  guess  that's  right,"  said  Tom,  thoughtfully,  writing  the 
word,  and  then  holding  his  head  back  from  the  paper,  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the-other,  to  see  if  it  looked  natural. 

"I'm  not  exactly  sure,"  he  said  at  last,  "  It  looks  kinder  queer. 
And  mamma  does  make  such  a  row  if  I  don't  spell  right!  What's  the 
use  in  spelling,  anyway?  If  the  folks  know  what  you  mean,  that's 
enough  —  one  way  is  as  good  as  another.  Pshaw !  "  he  continued,  "  I 
don't  believe  it  is  right.  See  here,  Bob !  you  're  a  first-rate  little  boy  — 
a  real,  regular  flrst-rate  good  boy,  you  are."  "  If  it 's  upstairs,  I  won't," 
declared  Bob,  who  knew  that  flattery  always  preceded  errands.  Bob 
was  one  of  the  kind  who  learned  by  experience. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Bobby  !  That's  a  lovely  harness  you've  made  for  pussy. 
I  could  n't  have  done  better  myself.  You  know  where  my  dictionary 
is,  up  in  my  room,  on  tlie  table.  Run  along  and  get  it,  —  that 's  a  good 
boy."    Bob  kept  on  with  his  work. 

"Come,  Bobby,"  said  Tom,  encouragingly.  "Go  j'ourself!"  was 
Bob's  polite  suggestion. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  tired.  I  've  done  nothing  but  run  for  doctors  all  day 
long.  Come,  Bob,  I'll  tell  mamma  what  a  good  boy  you  are,  if  you 
will." 

"  Won't  you  tell  her  I  dropped  the  teapot  down  the  well?"  asked 
Bob.     "  Oh,  did  you?"  cried  Tom,  Bess,  and  Archie,  all  in  a  breath. 

Bob  nodded  his  head,  and  looked  at  them  all  with  a  calm  stare. 
"Which  one?"  asked  the  three  children,  anxiously. 

"  The  big  silver  one,"  said  Bob.  "How?  Why?  What  were  you 
doing  with  it?" 

"  The  gardener  would  n't  lend  me  the  watering-pot  and  I  wanted  to 
water  my  garden,  so  I  just  thought  that  avouUI  do  instead;  and  I  went 
to  fill  it  at  the  well,  and  tlie  bucket  hit  it  right  over  into  the  well.  It 
was  the  bucket's  fault.     I  ain't  to  blame." 


JJ38  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

"  Whe-e-ew!"  at  last  whistled  Tom.  "  If  you  won't  tell  mamma, 
I  'U  go  for  your  book,"  said  Bob. 

"  Well,  I  won't  tell  her  in  this  letter,  any  way."  "  Don't  tell  her  at 
all,"  insisted  Bob. 

"  If  you  don't  go  right  off  and  get  it,  I  '11  write  it  this  moment." 

'*  I  '11  go,  I  '11  go !  "  cried  Bob.  "  That 's  the  worst  scrape  yet,"  said 
Bess.  "  For  if  I  did  get  lost,  I  was  found  again ;  and  if  I  did  tear  my 
clothes,  they  are  all  mended  now ;  and  if  Archie  did  break  his  arm,  he  *s 
got  it  mended  now,  too;  but  the  teapot  I  That's  dropped  down  the 
well,  antl  there  it  is."  Bessie's  argument  was  convincing.  There  was 
no  more  to  be  said. 

After  a  wliile,  Tom's  letter  was  finished,  and  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  Dear  Mamma  :  I  wish  you  was  home.  "We  have  dun  a  good  mcnny  bad  things. 
BoH8  got  lost  in  the  wooda,  and  most  drowned  In  Uainy  Pond.  I  shot  Kate  thru  the  head 
with  a  squirt  of  water, and  most  killed  her.  Archie  broke  his  aira  trying  to  wride  the 
trili-mule  at  the  curkis.  Bob  has  dun  worst  of  all ;  but  I  said  1  wood  n't  tel  that.  Bob 
hasdun  a  dredful  thing;  but  I  sed  I  wood  n't  tel, so  I  won't.  It's  orful.  Papa  is  very 
good  to  us,  and  don't  make  us  wash  too  much.  The  bred  is  orful ;  Maggy  is  crobB.  But 
■we're  all  well,  except  Archy's  arm,  and  Dr  Jarvis  says  if  he  don't  get  fever  he  will  get 

wel.  "  Your  loveing  sou, 

"  Tom. 
"  P.  8.    You  wU  feel  orful  bad  about  what  Bob  's  dun." 

The  next  morning  all  four  children  were  gathered  around  the  well, 
at  the  bottom  of  whicli  lay  tlie  silver  teapot 

"  I  see  it,  I  see  it !  cried  Tom,  eagerly.     "  It's  down  at  the  bottom." 

"Did  you  suppose  it  would  float?"  asked  Bess. 

"  Let  me  see,"  cried  Bob. 

"You  clear  out,"  said  Archie;  "you've  made  all  this  mischief. 
You  "d  better  go  before  you  tumble  in  yourself,  you  litile  goose.  I  can't 
go  after  it,  with  my  broken  arm." 

"  Now,  I  suppose  we  will  hear  of  nothing  but  your  broken  arm  for 
a  month,  and  you'll  shirlv  everything  for  it.  '  I  can't  study  'cause  my 
arm 's  broken ;  I  can't  go  errands  'cause  my  ann  's  broken ;  I  can't  go  to 
church  'cause  my  arm's  broken':  tliatwill  be  your  whim,  Archie;  but 
don't  try  your  dodges  on  me,  for  I  won't  stand  it.  If  It  really  hurts 
you,  I'm  sorry,  and  I'll  lick  any  fellow  that  touches  you  till  you  get 
well  again  ;  but  none  of  year  humbug.  Of  course  you  can't  go  down 
the  well;  you  could  n't  if  your  arm  was  n't  broken." 

Mcanwliile  Bess  had  gone  to  the  house  for  a  long  flshlng-pole,  and 
Boon  returned  carrying  it. 

"  We'll  fasten  a  hook  to  the  end  of  it  and  lish  the  teapot  up,"  said 
ihe.    "  Ho,  ho  I    Po  you  suppose  it  will  bite  like  a  fish?  "  laughed  Tom. 


MICE   AT  PLAY.  839 

"No,  I  do  not,  Tom  Bradley.  But  I  suppose  if  I  tie  a  string  to  the 
pole,  and  fasten  an  iron  hook  to  one  end,  tliat  I  can  wiggle  it  round  in 
the  water  till  the  hook  catches  in  the  handle,  and  then  ^\c  can  draw  it 
up.  That 's  what  I  suppose."  "  There  's  something  In  that,  Bess. 
Let  me  tr}'."  "No;  go  and  get  one  for  yourself."  "But  where  can 
I  find  one? "  "In  the  smoke-house,  where  I  got  mine."  " Oh,  get  me 
one,  too,"  cried  Bob.     "  And  me  one,  too,"  cried  Archie. 

Before  half  an  hour  had  passed,  the  four  chddren,  all  armed  with 
fishing-poles,  w'ere  intently  wigglmg  in  tlie  water,  catching  their  hooks 
in  the  stones  by  the  side  of  the  well,  entangling  their  lines,  digging 
their  elbows  into  each  other's  sides,  in  their  frantic  attempts  to  pull 
their  hooks  loose,  scolding,  pushing,  and  getting  generally  excited. 
Every  few  minutes  Tom  would  pull  Bess  back  by  her  sunbonnet,  and 
save  her  from  tumbling  over  in  her  eagerness;  but  so  far  from  being 
grateful  to  her  deliverer,  Bess  resented  the  treatment  indignantly. 

"  Stop  jerking  my  head  so ! "  she  cried.  "  You'll  be  in,  in  a  minute ; 
you'd  have  been  in  then,  if  I  had  n't  jerked  you,"  answered  Tom. 

""Well,  what  if  I  had?  Let  me  alone.  If  I  go  in,  that's  my  own 
lookout."  "  Your  own  look  in,  you  mean.  My  gracious!  would  n't  yon 
astonish  the  toads  down  there !     But  you'd  get  your  face  clean." 

"Now,  Tom,  you  let  me  be.  I 'most  had  it  that  time."  "So  you've 
said  forty  times.  This  is  all  humbug.  I  "m  going  down  on  the  rope 
for  it."  "  Oh,  no,  Tom;  please  (ion't.  Indeed  you'll  be  drowned;  the 
rope  will  break;  you'll  kill  yourself;  you'll  catch  cold,"  cried  Bess,  in 
alarm.  "Pooh!  girl!  coward!"  retorted  thankless  Tom.  "Who's 
afraid  of  what?  Stand  back,  small  boys,  I'm  going  in."  "You'll 
poison  the  water,"  suggested  Archie. 

"It  will  be  so  cold,"  moaned  Bob.  "  I '11  scream  for  a  hundred  years, 
without  stopping,  Tom,"  cried  Bess,  wildly.  "You  sha'u'tgo  down  — 
you;  I'll  call  some  one.  Murray!  Peter!  Maggie!  c-o-o-o-o-o-o-me ! 
0-o-o-o-h,  c-o-o-o-o-me  ! "  "  Stop  screaming,  and  help.  Now,  do  you 
three  hold  on  tight  to  this  bucket ;  don't  let  go  for  a  moment ;  pull 
away  as  hard  as  you  can  when  I  tell  you  to.     Now  for  it." 

And,  without  more  ado,  Tom  clung  to  the  other  rope  with  his  hands, 
and  twisted  his  feet  around  the  bucket-handle.  "  Hold  on  tight,  and 
let  me  down  easy,"  said  Tom ;  and  the  three  cliildren  lowered  him 
little  by  little. 

A  sudden  splash  and  shiver  told  thera  he  had  reached  water,  and  a 
shout  of  triumph  declared  that  the  teapot  was  rescued.  As  Tom 
shouted,  all  the  children  let  go  the  rope  and  rushed  to  the  side  of  the 


840  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

well  to  look  at  the  victorious  hero.  It  was  a  most  fortunate  circum- 
stance that  the  water  in  the  Avell  was  low.  As  it  was,  lie  stood  in  the 
cold  water  up  to  his  shoulders.  "What  made  you  let  go?"  roared 
Tom.  "Oh,  Tom,  have  you  got  it?  Have  you,  really?  Ain't  it  cold? 
Are  you  hurt?  Were  you  scared?  Is  the  teapot  broken?"  "Draw 
me  up?  You  siUy  children !  You  goose  of  a  Bess!  Why  don't  you 
draw  me  up?  " 

"I  will,  Tom;  I'm  going  to,"  answered  Bess.  But  all  the  united 
eflTorts  could  not  raise  Tom. 

"  ni  run  next  door  and  call  Mr.  Wilson,"  said  Bess,  hopefully,  and 
started.  As  Bess  ran,  she  was  suddenly  stopped  at  the  gate  by  the 
sight  of  a  carriage  which  had  just  driven  up,  and  out  of  which  now 
stepped  Aunt  Maria  and  Aunt  Maria's  husband.  Uncle  Daniel.  These 
w^ere  the  very  grimmest  and  grandest  of  all  the  relations. 

For  one  awful  moment  Bess  stood  stunned.  Then  her  anxiety  for 
Tom  overcame  every  other  consideration,  and  before  Aunt  Maria  could 
say,  "How  do  you  do,  Elizabeth?"  she  had  caught  her  uncle  by  his 
august  coat-tail,  and,  in  a  piteous  voice,  besought  him  to  come  and  pull 
on  the  rope.  "Pull  on  a  rope,  Elizabeth !  "  said  Uncle  Daniel,  who  was 
a  very  slow  man ;  "  why  should  I  pull  on  a  rope,  ray  dear?  " 

"  Oh,  come  quick!  hurry  faster!  Tom's  down  in  the  well!"  cried 
Bess.     "  Tom  down  a  well !     Hoav  did  he  get  there?  " 

"He  went  down  for  the  teapot,"  sobbed  Bess;  "the  silver  teapot, 
and  we  can't  pull  him  up  again ;  and  he's  cramped  with  cold.  Oh,  do 
hurry ! "  Uncle  Daniel  leisurely  looked  down  at  Tom.  Then  he  slowly 
took  off  his  coat,  and  as  slowly  carried  it  into  the  house,  stopped  to 
give  an  order  to  his  coachman,  came  with  measured  pace  to  the  three 
frightened  children ;  then  took  hold  of  the  rope,  gave  a  long,  strong, 
calm  pull,  and  in  an  instant  Tom,  "  dripping  with  coolness,  arose  from 
the  well." 2reil Forest. 

THE  SAILOR'S  SONG. 
fTlO  sea !  to  sea !  the  calm  is  o'er, 
-^      The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebblj'  shore. 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
An  unseen  mermaid's  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Flbtg  bi-oad  the  .sail,  dip  deep  the  oar: 
To  sea !  to  sea !  the  calm  is  o'er. 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN.  341 

To  sea !  to  sea !  our  white-winged  bark 

Shall  billowing  cleave  its  watery  way, 
And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark. 

Break  the  caved  Tritons'  azure  day, 

Like  mountain  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves !     The  ship  swings  free! 

Our  sails  swell  full !    To  sea !  to  sea ! 

Beddoea. 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

THERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar ; 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these,  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 

From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 

Stops  with  the  shore ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 

The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 

"When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 

Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals ; 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 

Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  Avhich  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


842  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

»  Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  —  what  are  they? 

Thy  waters  wasted  them  when  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 

Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :  not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  now. 

»  Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
.  Dark  heaving;  — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  — 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 

Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean !  and  ray  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  tliy  breast  to  be 

Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  witli  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 

Made  them  a  ten-or,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear; 
For  I  was,  as  it  Avere,  a  child  of  thee, 

And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 

And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


Byrtm, 


IfBAEEE,  MY  GOD,  TO  THEB. 
■VTEARER,  my  God,  to  thee,  nearer  to  the«!    E'en  though  it  be  a 
-'-^      cross  that  raiseth  me ;  still  all  my  song  shall  be,  —  nearer,  my 
Gk)d,  to  thee,  nearer  to  thee. 

Though,  like  tlic  wanderer,  the  sun  gone  down,  darkness  be  over  me, 
my  r-.'st  a  stone;  yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be  nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
nearer  to  thee. 

There  let  the  way  appear  steps  unto  heaven ;  all  that  thou  sendcst 
me  in  mercy  given;  angels  to  beckon  me  nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
nearer  to  thco. 


THE   VILLAGE   PREACHER.  843 

Then  with  my  wakincj  thoughts,  bright  with  thy  praise,  out  of  my 
stony  griefs  Bethel  I  'II  raise ;  so  by  my  woes  to  be  uearer,  my  God,  to 
tliee,  nearer  to  tliee. 

Or,  if  on  joyful  wing  cleaving  the  slcy.  snn,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 
upward  I  ily;  still  all  my  song  shall  be,  —  nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
nearer  to  thee. 

Adams. 

THE  VILLA&E  PREACHER. 
"VTEAR  yonder  copse  wliere  once  the  garden  smiled, 
-'-^      And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  whera  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  clianged,  or  wished  to  change,  his  place; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wri-tched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire  and  talked  the  night  away,  — 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields  were  won 
Pleased  with  his  guests  the  good  man  learned  to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 
Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side; 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  end  felt  for  all  t 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 


344  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

Comfort  came  down,  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorned  the  A^enerable  place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 

And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man 

With  ready  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

E'en  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  phare  the  good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed- 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Ooldsmith. 


DOGBEEET  AND  VEEGES. 
I. 

T^OGBEEEY.     Are  you  good  men  and  true? 

Verges.     Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suffer  salva- 
tion, body  and  soul. 

Dog.     Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for  them,  if  they  should 
have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen  for  the  Prince's  watch. 

Ver.     Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor  Dogberry. 

Dog.    First,  who  think  you  the  most  dcsartlcss  man  to  be  constable? 

1  Watch.     Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal;  for  they  can  write 
and  read. 

Dog.    Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal :  God  hath  bless'd  you  with  a 


DOGBERRY  AND  VERGES  345 

good  name:  to  be  a  well-favored  man  is  the  gift  of  fortune,  bat  to 
write  and  read  comes  by  nature. 

2  Watch.     Both  which,  master  constable  — 

Dog.  You  have ;  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer.  Well,  for  your 
favor,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for 
your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear  when  there  is  no  need  of  such 
vanity.  You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for 
the  constable  of  the  watch ;  therefore  bear  you  the  lantern.  This  is 
your  charge ;  you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men ;  you  are  to  bid 
any  man  stand,  in  the  Prince's  name. 

2  Watch.     How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go :  and  presently 
call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a 
knave. 

Ver.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is  none  of  the 
Prince's  subjects. 

Dog.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but  the  Prince's  sub- 
jects. —  You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch 
to  babble  and  talk,  is  most  tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk :  we  know  what  belongs  to 
a  watch. 

Dog.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet  watchman ;  for 
I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend :  only,  have  a  care  that  your 
bills  be  not  stolen.  —  Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid 
those  that  are  drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2  Watch.    How  if  they  will  not? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober:  if  they  make 
you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may  say  they  are  not  the  men  you 
took  them  for. 

2  Watch.     Well,  sir. 

Dog.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by  virtue  of  your 
office,  to  be  no  true  man;  and,  for  such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you  med- 
dle or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not  lay  hands  on 
him? 

Dog.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may ;  but,  I  think,  they  that  touch 
pitch  will  be  defiled ;  the  most  peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you  do  take  a 
thief,  is  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of  your 
company. 


346  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Ver. '  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man,  partner. 

Dog.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will ;  much  more  a  man 
who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Ver.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you  must  call  to  the  nurse, 
and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.     How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not  hear  us? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child  wake  her  with 
crying :  for  the  ewe  that  will  not  hear  her  lamb  when  it  baes,  will  never 
answer  a  calf  when  he  bleats. 

Ver.     'T  is  very  true. 

Dog.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  constable,  are  to  present 
the  Prince's  own  person ;  if  you  meet  the  Prince  in  the  night,  you  may 
stay  him. 

Ver.     Nay  by  'r  Lady,  that,  I  think,  he  cannot. 

Dog.  Five  shillings  to  one  on  't,  with  any  man  that  knows  the 
statutes,  he  may  stay  him :  marry,  not  without  the  Prince  be  willing : 
for,  indeed,  the  watch  ouglit  to  offend  no  man,  and  it  is  an  offence  to 
stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Ver.     By'r  Lady,  I  liiink  it  be  so. 

Dog.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Well,  masters,  good  night :  an  there  be  any 
matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me  :  keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and 
your  own,  and  good  night.  —  Come,  neighbor. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge :  let  us  go  sit  here 
upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dog.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors  :  I  pray  you,  watch  about 
Signior  Leonato's  door;  for  the  wedding  being  there  to-morrow,  there 
is  a  great  coil  to-night.     Adieu ;  be  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 

{^Exeunt  Dog.  and  Veb. 
n. 

Leo.    What  would  you  with  mo,  honest  neighbor? 

Dog.  Marry,  sir;  I  would  have  some  confidence  with  yon,  thai 
decerns  you  nearly. 

Leo.    Brief,  I  pray  you ;  for  you  see,  'tis  a  busy  time  with  me. 

Dog.     Marry,  this  it  is,  sir. 
Ver.    Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 

Leo.     What  is  It,  my  good  friends? 

Dog.  An  old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt,  as,  God  help, 
I  would  desire  they  were;  but,  in  faith,  honest  as  the  skin  bctweea 
his  brows. 


DOGBERRY  AND  VERGES.  347 

Ver.  Yes,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man  living  that  is  an 
old  man,  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dog.     Comparisons  are  odorous. 

Leo.     Neiglibors,  you  are  tedious. 

Dog.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we  are  the  poor  Duke's 
oflBcers ;  but,  truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king, 
I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  Worship. 

Leo.    All  thy  tediousness  on  me !  ha ! 

Dog.  Yea,  and  'twere  a  thousand  pound  more  than  'tis  :  for  I  hear 
as  good  exclamation  on  your  worship  as  of  any  man  in  the  city ;  and 
though  I  be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Ver.    And  so  am  I. 

Leo.     I  must  leave  you. 

Dog.  Our  watch,  sir,  have  indeed  comprehended  two  auspicious 
persons,  and  we  would  have  them  this  morning  examined  before  your 
Worship. 

Leo.  Take  tlieir  examination  yourself,  and  bring  it  me.  I  am  now 
in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear  unto  you.  [Exit  Lkonato. 

Dog.  It  shall  be  suffigance.  Go,  good  partner,  go ;  get  you  to 
Francis  Seacoal ;  bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  ink-horn  to  the  jail ;  we 
are  now  to  examination  these  men. 

Ver.    And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dog.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you;  here's  that  (touch' 
ing  his  forehead)  sliall  drive  some  of  them  to  a  non  com ;  only  get  the 
learned  writer  to  set  down  our  excommunication,  and  meet  me  at  the 
jaiL  \_Exeunt. 

vs. 

Dog.    Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared? 

Vvr.    O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sextoo  f 

Sex.    Which  be  the  malefactors? 

Dog.    Maxry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 

Ver.    Nay,  that 's  certain ;  we  have  the  exhibition  to  examine. 

Sex.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be  examined?  Let 
them  come  before  Master  Constable. 

Dog.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me.  —  What  is  your  name, 
friend? 

Bor.    Borachio. 

Dog.     Pray  write  down  Borachio.     Yours,  sirrali? 

Con.    I  am  a  gen4,leman,  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrade. 


348  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Dog.  Write  down  master  gentleman  Conrade.  Masters,  do  you 
serve  God? 

Con.  Bor.    Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dog.  Write  down  that  they  hope  they  serve  God :  and  write  God 
first;  for  God  defend,  but  God  should  go  before  such  villains!  Mas- 
ters, it  is  proved  already  that  you  are  little  better  than  false  knaves, 
and  it  will  go  near  to  be  thought  so  shortly.  How  answer  you  for 
yourselves? 

Con.     Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dog.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you ;  but  I  will  go  about 
with  him.  Come  you  hither,  sirrah;  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir.  I  say  to 
you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Bor.     Sir,  I  say  to  you  we  are  none. 

Dog.  Well,  stand  aside.  'Fore  God,  they  are  both  in  a  tale.  Have 
you  writ  down  that  they  are  none? 

Sf^x.  Master  Constable,  you  go  not  the  Avay  to  examine ;  you  must 
call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their  accusers. 

Dog.  Yea,  marry,  that's  the  eftest  way.  Let  the  watch  come 
forth.     Masters,  I  charge  you,  in  the  Prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the  Prince's  brother, 
was  a  villain. 

Dog.  Write  down  Prince  Jolm  a  villain.  Why  this  is  flat  perjury 
to  call  a  prince's  brother,  villain. 

Bor.     Master  Constable  — 

Dog.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace ;  I  do  not  like  thy  look,  I  promise 
thee. 

Sex.    What  heard  you  him  say  else? 

2  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand  ducats  of  Don 
John,  for  accusing  the  Lady  Hero  wrongfully. 

Dog.     Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 
Ver.     Yea,  by  the  Mass,  that  it  is. 
Sex.     What  else,  fellow  ? 

1  Watch.  And  that  Count  Claudio  did  mean,  upon  his  words,  to 
disgrace  Hero  before  tlie  whole  assembly,  and  not  marry  her. 

Dog.  O  villain !  thou  wilt  be  condemned  into  everlasting  redemp- 
tion for  this. 

Sex.     What  else? 

2  Watch.     This  is  all. 

Sex.     And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can  deny.    Prince  John  Is 


THE   BELLS.  349 

this  morning  secretly  stolen  away ;  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accused, 
in  this  very  manner  refused,  and,  upon  the  grief  of  this,  suddenly  died. 
Master  Constable,  let  these  men  be  bound,  and  brought  to  Leonato's; 
I  will  go  before,  and  show  him  their  examination.  [Exit. 

Dog.    Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Ver.    Let  them  be  in  the  liands. 

Con.     Off,  coxcomb ! 

Do(/.  God's  my  life!  where 's  the  sexton?  let  him  write  down  the 
Prince 's  oflicer,  coxcomb.     Come,  bind  them  :  —  thou  naughty  varlet ! 

Con.     Away!  you  are  an  ass,  jou  are  an  ass. 

Dofj.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place?  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my 
years?  —  0,  that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down  an  ass!  —  but,  mas- 
ters, remember  that  I  am  an  ass;  though  it  be  not  written  down,  yet 
forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass.  — No,  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of  piety, 
as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise  fellow ;  and, 
which  is  more,  an  officer;  and,  which  is  more,  a  householder;  and, 
which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any  in  Messina;  and  one 
that  knows  the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to ;  and  a 
fellow  that  hath  had  losses ;  and  one  that  hath  two  gowns,  and  every- 
thing handsome  about  him.  Bring  him  away.  O  that  I  had  been  writ 
down  an  ass !  [Exeunt. 
Shakespeare. 

THE  BELLS. 
I    I  EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells  —  silver  bells  — 

*      "What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle,  in  the  icy  air  of  night  J 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 

All  the  heavens,  seem  to  tinkle  with  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time,  in  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  l)ells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 
Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells,  golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night  how  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes,  and  all  in  tune, 
"What  a  liquid  dilty  floats 
To  the  tui-tle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats  on  the  moon  I 


850  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 

How  it  swells !  how  it  dwells 

On  the  Future !  how  it  tells  of  the  rapture  that  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing  of  the  bells,  bells,  bells—* 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  clximing  of  the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  —  brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrifled  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek,  out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher,  with  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor,  now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon.     Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  I 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells  of  despair  ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar !     AVhat  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  air,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging  and  the  clanging, 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ;  yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells 
In  the  jangling  and  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 

By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  tlie  anger  of  the  bells  —  of  the  bells - 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  —  iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compsls  I 
In  the  silence  of  the  night. 
How  we  shiver  with  aflriglit 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  nist  within  their  throats  Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people ~- 
Thcy  tliat  dwell  up  in  the  steeple,  all  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling,  In  that  mufHed  monotonai 


UNION  AND   LIBERTY.  351 

Feel  a  glory  In  so  rolling  on  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 

They  are  neither  brute  nor  Iiuman  —  they  are  Ghouls : 

And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 

And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls  a  psean  from  the  bells ! 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells  with  tlie  paean  of  the  bells ! 

And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time,  in  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells  —  of  the  bells  : 

Keeping  time,  time,  time,  in  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  —  of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ;  keeping  time,  time,  lime, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells,  in  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  'i,  Pos 


UNION  AND  LIBEETY. 


TT^LAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 
-*-       Borne  through  our  battle-fields'  thunder  and  flame^ 
Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light. 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore; 
While  through  the  sounding  sky. 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
Union  and  Liberty !  —  one  evermore ! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  nation, 
Pride  of  her  children,  and  honored  afar, 

Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constellation 
Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a  star ! 

Empire  unsceptred !  what  foe  shall  assail  thee, 

Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van? 
Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail  thee, 

Striving  with  men  for  the  birthi'ight  of  man ! 


352  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Yet,  if  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 

Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword  thou  must  draw, 

Then,  with  the  arms  of  thy  millions  united, 
Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and  Law ! 

Lord  of  the  universe !  shield  us  and  guide  us, 

Trusting  Thee  always,  through  shadow  and  sun ! 
Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us? 
Keep  us,  0  keep  us  the  many  in  one ! 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 

Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 

Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry  — 
Union  and  Liberty !     One  evermore ! 

Sblmes. 


CICELY  Airo  THE  BEAKS. 
''/~\H,  yes!  Oh,  yes!  Oh,  j'es!  ding-dong! "  The  bellman's  voice 
^-^  is  loud  and  strong;  so  is  his  bell:  "Oh,  yes!  ding-dong!" 
He  wears  a  coat  with  golden  lace ;  see  how  the  people  of  the  place 
come  running  to  hear  what  the  bellman  says!  "Oh,  yes!  Sir  Nich- 
olas Hildebrand  has  just  returned  from  the  Holy  Land,  and  freely  offers 
his  heart  and  hand  — Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes!  ding-dong !"  all  the 
women  hurry  along,  maids  and  widows,  a  clattering  throng.  "  Oh, 
sir,  you  are  hard  to  understand !  To  whom  does  he  offer  his  heart  and 
hand?  Explain  your  meaning,  we  do  command!"  "Oh,  yes!  ding- 
dong!  you  shall  understand!  Oh,  yes!  Sir  Nicholas  Hildebrand 
invites  the  ladies  of  this  land  to  feast  with  him,  in  his  castle  strong, 
this  very  day  at  three.  Ding-dong!  Oh,  j'es!  Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes, 
ding-dong !  "  Then  all  the  women  went  off  to  dress,  Mary,  Margaret ! 
Bridget,  Bess,  Patty,  and  more  than  I  can  guess.  They  powdered  their 
hair  with  golden  dust,  and  bought  new  ribbons — they  said  they  must 
—  but  none  of  them  ]>ainted,  we  will  trust.  Long  before  the  time 
arrives,  all  tlie  women  tliat  could  l)e  wives  are  dressed  within  an  inch 
of  their  lives.  Meanwhile  Sir  Nicholas  Hildebrand  had  brought  with 
him  from  the  Holy  Land  a  couple  of  bears  —  Oh,  that  was  grand! 
He  tamed  the  bears,  and  they  loved  him  true:  whatever  he  told  them 
they  would  do  —  hark  '.  't  is  the  town  clock  striking  two  I 


CICELY  AND  THE  BEARS.  353 

Among  the  maidens  of  low  degree  the  poorest  of  all  was  Cicely  —  a 
shabbier  girl  could  hardly  be.  "  Oh,  I  sliould  lilte  to  see  tlie  feast,  but 
my  froclc  is  old,  my  shoes  are  pieced,  my  hair  is  rough!"  (It  never 
was  greased.)  The  cloclv  struck  three!  she  durst  not  go!  But  she 
heard  the  band,  and,  to  see  the  show,  crept  after  the  people  that  went 
in  a  row.  "When  Cicely  came  to  the  castle  gate,  the  porter  exclaimed, 
"  Miss  Shaggypate,  the  hall  is  full,  and  you  come  too  late !  "  Just  then 
the  music  made  a  din,  flute,  and  cymbal,  .and  culverin,  ajid  Cicely  with 
a  squeeze,  got  in.  Oh,  what  a  sight!  Full  fifty  score  of  dames  that 
Cicely  knew,  and  more,  filling  the  hall  from  dais  to  door !  The  dresses 
were  like  a  garden  l)ed,  green  and  gold,  and  blue  and  red  —  poor  Cicely 
thought  of  her  tossy  head!  She  heard  the  singing  —  she  heard  the 
clatter — clang  of  flagon  and  clinli  of  platter  —  but,  oh,  the  feast  was 
no  such  matter !  For  she  saw  Sir  Nicholas  himself,  raised  on  a  dais 
just  like  a  sliclf,  and  fell  in  love  with  him— shabby  elf!  Her  heart 
beat  quick ;  aside  slie  .stepped :  under  the  tapestry  she  crept,  tousling 
her  tossy  hair,  and  wept !  Her  cheeks  were  wet,  her  eyes  were  red. 
"Who  makes  that  noise?"  the  ladies  said;  "turn  out  that  girl  with 
the  shaggy  head  !  " 

Just  then  there  was  heard  a  double  roar,  that  shook  the  place,  both 
wall  and  floor:  ever3'bod3'  looked  to  the  door.  It  was  a  roar,  it  was  a 
growl;  the  ladies  set  up  a  little  howl,  and  flapped  and  clucked  like 
frightened  fowl.  Sir  Ilildebrand  for  silence  begs  —  in  walked  the 
bears  on  their  hinder  legs,  wise  as  owls,  and  merry  as  grigs !  The 
dark  girls  tore  their  hair  of  sable ;  the  fair  girls  hid  underneath  the 
table;  some  fainted;  to  move  they  were  not  able.  But  most  of  them 
could  scream  and  screech.  Sir  Nicholas  Ilildebrand  made  a  speech : 
"Order,  ladies,  I  do  beseech!"  The  bears  looked  hard  at  Cicely, 
because  her  hair  hung  wild  and  free  —  "  Related  to  us,  miss,  you  must 
be ! "  Then  Cicely,  filling  two  plates  of  gold  as  full  of  cherries  as 
they  could  hold,  walked  up  to  the  bears,  and  spoke  out  bold:  "Wel- 
come to  you!  and  to  you,  Mr.  Bear!  Will  you  take  a  chair?  will  you 
take  a  chair?  This  is  an  honor,  we  do  declare!"  Sir  Hildebrand 
strode  up  to  see,  saying,  "  Wlio  may  tliis  maiden  be?  Ladies,  this  Is 
the  wife  for  me!"  Almost  before  they  could  understand,  he  took 
up  Cicely  by  tlic  hand,  and  danced  with  her  a  saraband.  Ilcr  hair  was 
rough  as  a  parlor  broom;  it  swung,  it  swirled  all  round  the  room  — 
those  ladies  were  vexed,  we  may  presume.  Sir  Nicholas  kissed  her  on 
the  face,  and  set  her  beside  him  on  the  dais,  and  made  her  the  lady  ol 


854  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

the  place.  The  nuptials  soon  they  did  prepare,  with  a  silver  comb  foi 
Cicely's  hair;  there  were  bands  of  music  everywhere.  And  in  that 
beautiful  bridal  show  both  the  bears  were  seen  to  go  upon  their  hind 
legs  to  and  fro !  Now  every  year  on  the  wedding  day  the  boys  and 
girls  come  out  to  play,  and  scramble  for  cherries  as  they  may.  "With  a 
cheer  for  this  and  the  other  bear,  and  a  cheer  for  St.  Nicholas,  free  and 
fair,  and  a  cheer  for  Cis,  of  the  tossy  hair  —  with  one  cheer  more  (If 
you  will  wait)  for  every  girl  Avith  a  curly  pate,  who  keeps  her  hair  in  a 
proper  state.  Sing  bear's  grease !  curling-irons  to  sell !  Sing  combs 
and  brushes !  Sing  tortoise-shell !  Oh,  j^es !  ding-dong !  the  crier,  the 
bell  t    Is  n't  this  a  pretty  tale  to  tell? 

lAtliput  Levee, 


THE  SAUDPIPEE. 
A    CROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 
•*-^     One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit. 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  do\ATi  the  beach  we  flit,  — 
One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  slu'ouds 

Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach. 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
He  starts  not  at  my  fltful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye. 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 


ECHO   AND   THE   FERRY.  86S 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night, 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously? 

My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright! 
To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly? 

I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 
The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky : 

For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I? 

Celta  Thaxter. 


ECHO  AUD  THE  FEERT. 

AY,  Oliver!     I  was  but  seven,  and  he  was  eleven  ; 
He  looked  at  me  pouting  and  rosy.     I  blushed  where  I  stood. 
They  had  told  us  to  play  in  the  orchard  (and  I  only  seven, 
A  small  guest  at  the  farm) ;  but  he  said,  "  Oh !  a  girl  was  no  good ! " 
So  he  whistled  and  went,  he  went  over  the  stile  to  the  wood. 
It  was  sad,  it  was  sorrowful !     Only  a  girl  —  only  seven ! 
At  home  in  the  dark  London  smoke  I  had  not  found  it  out. 
The  pear-trees  looked  on  in  their  white,  and  bluebirds  flashed  about^ 
And  they,  too,  were  angry  as  Oliver.     "Were  they  eleven? 
I  thought  so.     Yes,  every  one  else  was  eleven  — eleven. 
So  Oliver  went,  but  the  cowslips  were  tall  at  my  feet, 
And  all  the  white  orchard  with  fast-falling  blossom  was  littered ; 
And  under  and  over  the  branches  those  little  birds  twittered, 
While  hanging  head  downward  they  scolded  because  I  was  seven. 
A  pity  —  a  very  great  pity.     One  should  be  eleven. 

But  soon  I  was  happy,  the  smell  of  the  world  was  so  sweet, 
And  I  saw  a  round  hole  in  an  apple-tree  rosy  and  old. 
Then  I  kne\v',  for  I  peeped,  and  I  found  it  was  right  they  should  scold. 
Eggs  small  and  eggs  many.     Eor  gladness  I  broke  into  laughter ; 
And  then  some  one  else  —oh !   how  softly—  came  after,  came  after 
With  laughter  —  with  laughter  came  after. 
And  no  one- was  near  us  to  utter  that  sweet,  mocking  call. 
That  soon  very  tired  sank  low  with  a  mystical  fall. 
But  this  was  the  country,  perhaps  it  was  close  under  heaven; 
Oh !  nothing  so  likely ;  the  voice  might  have  come  from  it  even. 
I  knew  about  heaven.     But  this  was  the  country,  of  this 
Light,  blossom,  and  piping,  and  flashing  of  wings  not  at  all. 
Not  at  all.     No.     But  one  little  bird  was  an  easy  f orgiver : 
She  peeped,  she  drew  near  as  I  moved  from  her  domicile  suiaU, 


8")6  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Then  flashed  down  her  hole  like  a  dart  —  like  a  dart  from  the  quiver, 
And  I  waded  atween  the  long  grasses,  and  felt  it  was  bliss. 

So  this  was  the  country;  clear  dazzle  of  azure  and  shiver, 
And  whisper  of  leaves,  and  a  humming  all  over  the  tall 
Wliite  branches,  a  humming  of  bees.    And  I  came  to  the  wall — 
A  little,  low  wall — and  looked  over,  and  there  was  the  river, 
The  lane  that  led  on  to  the  village,  and  then  the  sweet  river, 
Clear  shining  and  slow,  she  had  far,  far  to  go  from  her  snow; 
But  each  rush  gleamed  a  sword  in  the  sunlight  to  guard  her  long  flow, 
And  she  murmured,  methought,  with  a  speech  very  soft,  very  low. 
"  The  ways  will  be  long,  but  the  days  will  be  long,"  quoth  the  river, 
"To  me  a  long  liver,  long,  long,"  quoth  the  river  —  the  river. 
I  dreamed  of  the  country  that  night,  of  the  orchard,  the  sky, 
The  voice  that  had  moclced  coming  after  and  over  and  under. 

But  at  last  —  in  a  day  or  two  namely  —  Eleven  and  I 
Were  very  fast  friends,  and  to  him  I  confided  the  wonder. 
He  said  that  was  Echo.     "  "Was  Echo  a  wise  kind  of  bee 
That  had  learned  how  to  laugh :  could  it  laugh  in  one's  ear  and  then  fly. 
And  laugh  again  yonder?"     "  No ;  Echo  "  —  he  whispered  it  low  — 
"  "Was  a  woman,  they  said,  but  a  woman  whom  no  one  could  see 
And  no  one  could  And ;  and  lie  did  not  believe  it,  not  he ; 
But  he  could  not  get  near  for  the  river  that  held  us  asunder. 
Yet  I  that  had  money  —  a  shilling,  a  whole  silver  shilling  — 
We  might  cross  if  I  tliought  I  would  spend  it."    "Ohl   yes,  I  was 

willing  "  — 
And  we  ran  hand  in  hand,  we  ran  down  to  the  ferry,  the  feri-y, 
And  we  heard  how  she  mocked  at  the  folic  with  a  voice  clear  and  merry 
When  they  called  for  the  ferry ;  but,  oh  !  she  was  very  —  was  very 
Swift  footed.     She  spoke  and  was  gone ;  and  when  Oliver  cried, 
"  Hie  over !  hie  over !  you  man  of  the  ferry  —  the  ferry ! " 
By  the  still  water's  side  she  was  heard  far  and  wide  —  she  replied. 
And  she  mocked  In  her  voice  sweet  and  merry,  "  You  man  of  the  ferry. 
You  man  of  —  you  man  of  tlie  ferry !  " 

"  Hie  over  I  "  he  shouted.     The  ferryman  came  at  his  calling; 
Across  the  clear  reed-hordercd  river  lie  ferried  us  fast. 

Such  a  chase !     Hand  in  hand,  foot  to  foot,  we  ran  on ;  it  surpassed 
All  measure  her  doubling,  so  close,  then  so  far  away  falling, 
Then  gone,  and  no  more.    Oh  !  to  see  her  but  once  unaware, 
And  the  mouth  that  had  mocked,  but  we  might  not  (yet  sure  she  was 
there) , 


ECHO  AND  THE   FERRY.  357 

Nor  behold  her  wild  eyes,  and  her  mystical  countenance  fair. 

We  sought  in  the  wood,  and  we  found  the  wood-wren  in  her  stead; 

In  the  field,  and  we  found  but  the  cuckoo  that  talked  overliead ; 

By  the  brook,  and  we  found  the  roed-sparrow  deep-nested,  in  brown; 

Not  Echo,  fair  Echo,  for  Echo,  sweet  Echo  was  flown. 

So  we  came  to  the  place  where  the  dead  people  wait  till  God  call. 
Tlie  church  A'as  among  them,  gray  moss  over  roof,  over  ■wall. 
Very  silent,  so  low.     And  we  stood  on  the  green,  grassy  mound 
And  looked  In  at  the  window,  for  Echo,  perhaps,  in  her  round 
Might  have  come  in  to  hide  there.    But,  no ;  every  oak-carven  seat 
Was  empty.    We  saw  the  great  Bible,  old,  old,  very  old. 
And  the  parson's  great  prayer-book  beside  it;  we  heard  the  slow  beat 
Of  the  pendulum  swing  in  tlie  tower;  we  saw  the  clear  gold 
Of  a  sunbeam  float  down  to  the  aisle,  and  then  weaver  and  play 
On  the  low  chancel  step  and  the  railing ;  and  Oliver  said, 
"Look,  Katie!  look,  Katie!  when  Lettice  came  hereto  be  wed 
i5he  stood  where  that  sunbeam  drops  down,  and  all  white  was  her 

gown ; 
And  she  stepped  upon  floAvers  they  strewed  for  her."    Then  quoth 

small  Seven, 
**  Shall  I  wear  a  wdiite  gown  and  have  flowers  to  walk  upon  ever?" 
All  doubtful :  •'  It  takes  a  long  time  to  grow  up,"  quotli  Eleven; 
"You're  so  little,  you  know,  and  tlie  churcli  is  so  old,  it  can  never 
Last  on  till  you're  tall."    And  in  whispers,  —  because  it  was  old 
And  holy,  and  fraught  with  strange  meaning,  half  felt,  but  not  told, 
Fidl  of  old  parsons'  prayers,  who  were  dead,  of  old  days,  of  old  folk, 
Neither  heard  nor  beheld,  but  about  us  —  in  Avhispers  we  spoke. 
Then  we  went  from  it  softly,  and  ran  hand  in  hand  to  the  strand, 
While  bleating  of  flocks  and  birds'  piping  made  sweeter  the  land- 
And  Echo  came  back  e'en  as  Oliver  drew  to  the  ferry. 
"O  Katie!"     "O   Katie!"     "Come  on  then!"    "Come  oa  then!" 

"  For,  see, 
The  round  sun,  all  red,  lying  low  by  the  tree  — by  the  tree." 
"  By  the  tree."    Ay,  she  mocked  him  again,  with  her  voice  sweet  and 

merry ; 
"Hleover!"    "Ilieover!"     "  You  man  of  the  ferry  "—"the  ferry.' 
"  You  man  of  the  ferry  —  " 
"  You  man  of —  you  man  of —  the  ferry." 
Ay,  here — it  was  here  that  we  woke  her,  the  Echo  of  old; 
All  life  of  that  day  seems  an  echo,  and  many  times  told. 


858  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Shall  I  come  bj'  the  ferry  to-morrow,  and  come  iu  my  'white 

To  that  little  low  church?    And  will  Oliver  meet  me  anon? 

WiU  it  all  seem  an  echo  from  childhood  passed  over  —  passed  on? 

WiU  the  grave  parson  bless  us?    *'  Hark !  hark !  in  the  dim  failiug  light 

I  hear  her!"     As  then  the  child's  voice  clear  and  high,  sweet  and 

merry. 
Now  she  mocks  the  man's  tone  with  "  Hie  over !  Hie  over,  the  ferry ! " 
"And,  Katie!"     "And,   Katie!"     "Art  out  with  tlie    glow-worms 

to-night. 

My  Katie?  "  "  My  Katie ! "    For  gladness  I  break  into  laughter 

And  tears.     Then  it  all  comes  again  as  from  far-away  years ; 

Again,  some  one  else  —  oh,  how  softly! — with  laughter  comes  after, 

Comes  after — with  laughter  comes  after. 

Ingelow. 


THE  OLD  POLITICIAN. 


"^TOW  that  Tom  Dunstan's  cold,  our  shop  is  duller;  scarce  a  story 
•^^  is  told !  And  our  chat  has  lost  the  old  red  Republican  color ! 
Though  he  was  sickly  and  thin,  he  gladdened  us  with  his  face :  how, 
warming  at  rich  man's  sin,  with  bang  of  the  fist,  and  chin  thrust  out, 
he  argued  the  case!  He  prophesied  folk  should  be  free,  and  the 
money-bags  be  bled;  "  She's  coming,  she's  coming!  "  said  he;  "  Cour- 
age, boys !  wait  and  see  !  Freedom 's  ahead !  " 

All  day  we  sat  in  the  heat,  like  spiders  spinning,  stitching  full  fine 
and  fleet,  while  the  old  Jew  on  his  seat  sat  greasily  grinning;  and 
there  Tom  said  his  say,  and  prophesied  Tyranny's  death ;  and  the  tal- 
low burnt  all  day,  and  we  stitched  and  stitched  away  in  the  thick  smoke 
of  our  breath,  wearily,  wearily;  with  hearts  as  heavy  as  lead;  but 
"Patience,  she's  coming!"  said  he;  "Courage,  boys!  wait  and  see! 
Freedom 's  ahead !  " 

And  at  night,  when  we  took  here  the  pause  allowed  to  us,  the  paper 
came  with  the  beer,  and  Tom  read,  sliarp  and  clear,  the  news  out  loud 
to  us;  and  then  in  his  witty  way,  he  threw  the  jest  about,  —  the  cutting 
things  he  'd  say  of  the  wealthy  and  the  gay  I  How  he  turned  them 
Inside  out,  and  it  made  our  breath  more  free  to  hearken  to  what  he 
said  :  "  She 's  coming,  she 's  coming!  "  says  he;  "  Courage,  boys,  wait 
and  see  !  Freedom  's  ahead  !  " 

But  grim  Jack  Hart,  with  a  sneer  would  mutter,  "  Master!  If  Free- 
dom means  to  appear,  I  think  she  might  step  here  a  little  faster  I" 


DOUGLAS  TO  THE  MOB.  859 

Then  It  was  fine  to  see  Tom  flame,  and  argue  and  prove  and  preach, 
till  Jack  was  silent  for  shame,  or  a  flt  of  coughing  came  o'  sudden  to 
spoil  Tom's  speech.  Ah  I  Tom  had  the  eyes  to  see,  when  Tyranny 
should  be  sped ;  "  She's  coming,  she's  coming!"  said  he;  "Courage, 
boys !  wait  and  see  I  Freedom 's  ahead ! " 

But  Tom  was  little  and  weak ;  the  hard  hours  shook  him ;  hoUower 
grew  his  cheek,  and  when  he  began  to  speak  the  coughing  took  him. 
Ere  long  the  cheery  sound  of  his  chat  among  us  ceased,  and  we  made 
a  purse  all  round,  that  he  might  not  starve,  at  least;  liis  pain  was 
sorry  to  see,  yet  there,  on  his  poor  sick  bed,  "  She's  coming,  in  spite 
of  me !  courage  and  wait !  "  cried  he,  '*  Freedom 's  ahead !  " 

A  little  before  he  died,  to  see  his  passion!  "  Bring  me  a  paper!  " 
he  cried,  and  tlien  to  study  it  tried  in  his  old  sharp  fashion ;  and,  with 
cyebaiis  glittering,  his  look  on  me  he  bent,  and  said  that  savage  thing 
of  the  lords  of  Parliament.  Tlicn  darkening,  smiling  on  me,  "What 
matter  If  one  be  dead?  She's  coming,  at  least!  "  said  he;  "Courage, 
boys !  wait  and  see !    Freedom's  ahead !  " 

Ay,  now  Tom  Dunstan's  cold,  the  shop  feels  duller;  scarce  a  story 
is  told.  Our  talk  has  lost  the  old  red  Republican  color.  But  we  see  a 
figure  gray,  and  we  hear  a  voice  of  death,  and  the  tallow  burns  all  day, 
and  we  stitch  and  stitch  away  in  tlie  thick  smoke  of  our  breath.  Ay, 
here  in  the  dark  sit  we,  while,  wearily,  wearily,  we  hear  him  call  from 
the  dead:  "She's  coming,  she's  coming!"  said  he.  "Freedom's 
ahead ! " 

How  long,  0  Lord,  hoAv  long  doth  thy  handmaid  linger  —  she  who 
shall  right  the  wrong,  make  the  oppressed  strong?  Sweet  morrow, 
bring  her !  Hasten  her  over  the  sea,  O  Lord,  ere  hope  be  fled ;  bring 
her  to  men  and  to  me !  O  slave,  pray  still  on  thy  knee,  —  "  Freedom  "s 
ahead !  "  _    . 

Buchanan. 


DOTJQtLAS  TO  THE  MOB. 
I    I  EAR,  gentle  friends,  ere  yet  for  me 
*    *       Ye  break  the  bands  of  fealty. 
My  life,  my  honor,  and  my  cause 
I  tender  free  to  Scotland's  laws. 
Are  these  so  weak  as  must  require 
The  aid  of  your  misguided  ire? 
Or,  if  I  suff'er  causeless  wrong. 
Is  then  my  selfish  rage  so  strong, 


860  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

My  sense  of  public  weal  so  low, 

That,  for  mean  vengeance  on  a  foe, 

Those  cords  of  love  I  should  unbind, 

Which  knit  my  country  and  my  kind? 

Oh,  no !     Believe  in  yonder  tower 

It  will  not  soothe  my  captive  hour, 

To  know  those  spears  our  foes  should  dread, 

For  me  in  kindred  gore  are  red ; 

To  know,  in  fruitless  brawl  begun. 

For  me  that  mother  wails  her  son ; 

For  me,  that  widow's  mate  expires ; 

For  me  that  orphans  weep  their  sires : 

That  patriots  mourn  insulted  laws, 

And  curse  the  Douglas  for  tlie  cause. 

Oh  let  your  patience  ward  such  ill, 

And  keep  your  right  to  love  me  still." 


SaoU. 


THE  GLOVE  AWD  THE  LIONS. 
TT'ING  FRANCIS  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a  royal  sport, 
-*-^     And  one  day  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the  court ; 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches  round,  the  ladies  by  their  side, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with  one  for  whom  he 

sighed : 
And  truly  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see  tliat  crowning  show  — 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal  beasts  below. 
Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laughing  jaws ; 
They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a  wind  went  with  their 

paws : 
With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar,  they  rolled  on  one  another. 
Till  all  the  pit,  with  sand  and  mane,  was  in  a  thunderous  smother; 
The  l)loody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whizzing  tlirougli  the  air ; 
Said  Francis  tlien,  "Faith!  gentlemen,  we  're  better  here  than  there!  " 
Dc  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  king,  —  a  beauteous  lively  dame, 
With  smiling  lips  .and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which  always  seemed  the  same? 
She  thought.  "The  Count  my  lover  is  brave  as  brave  can  be  — 
lie  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his  love  of  me: 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  Uxjk  on  :  the  occasion  Is  divine! 
I  '11  drop  my  glove,  to  prove  Ins  love ;  great  glory  will  be  mmo  I " 


THE  BURIAL  OF   SIR  JOHN   MOORE.  361 

She  dropped  her  glove,  to  prove  his  love,  then  looked  at  hlra  and 

smiled ; 
Ho  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the  lions  Avild. 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick  —  he  has  regained  the  place  — 
Then  threw  the  glove  —  but  not  with  love  —  right  in  the  lady's  face. 
"  By  Heaven,"  cried  Fi-ancis,  "  rightly  done  !  "  and  he  rose  from  where 

he  sat : 
*•  No  love,"  quoth  he,  *'  but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task  like  that!  " 

Leigh  Hunt. 

THE  UNDISCOVEEED  OOUNTET. 
/^OULD  we  but  know 

^-^     The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 
Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low,  — 

Ah,  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil 
Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know, 
Who  would  not  go? 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch,  betimes,  Avith  wakeful  eyes  and  clear, 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us,  — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah,  who  would  fear ! 

Were  we  quite  sure 
To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely; 

Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovclit  only,  — 

This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, 

Who  would  endure? 

Edmund  Clarenci  Stedman. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIE  JOHN  MOORE. 
'VTOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note,  as  his  corse  to  the 
-*-^      rampart  we  hurried  i  not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
o'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

Wo  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night,  the  sods  with  our  bayonets 
turning,  by  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light  and  tlie  lantern 
dimly  burning. 


862  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast,  not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we 
wound  him;  but  he  lay  lilie  a  warrior  taliing  his  rest,  with  his  martial 
cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said,  and  we  spoke  not  a  word 
of  sorrow,  but  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  and  we 
bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

"We  thought  as  we  hoUow'd  his  narrow  bed  and  smoothed  down  his 
lonely  pillow,  that  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 
and  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone  and  o'er  his  cold  ashes 
upbraid  him;  but  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on,  in  the 
grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done  when  the  clock  struck  the 
hour  for  retiring :  and  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun  that  the 
foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down,  from  the  field  of  his  fame 

fresh  and  gory ;  we  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  laised  not  a  stone  —  but 

we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Wolfe. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

MY  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 
'Tis  not  tlirough  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness,  — 

That  thou,  light-wingfed  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  bcechcn  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singestof  summer  in  f nil-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  drauglit  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  eartli, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  I 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Ilippocrene, 
With  Ijcadnd  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim 
And  purple-stained  mouth; 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE.  863 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden -eyed  despairs ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards. 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit  tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast- fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  musi^d  rhyme. 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 


364  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self -same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  homa. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  Is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  I 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music :  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep? 


K«at». 


THE  SIN(JIN&  LESSON 


A     NIGHTINGALE  made  a  mistake ;  she  sang  a  few  aot*i  out  of  tunet 
-^--*-  Her  lieart  was  ready  to  break,  and  siie  hid  from  the  moon. 
She  wrung  her  claws,  poor  thing,  but  was  far  too  proud  to  speak; 
Slie  tucked  her  liead  under  her  wing,  and  pretended  to  bo  asleep. 

A  lark,  arm-ln-ariii  with  a  thrush,  came  sauntering  up  to  the  place; 
The  nightingale  felt  iicrself  blush,  tliough  feathers  hid  her  face; 
She  knew  thoy  had  heard  lier  song,  she  felt  them  snicker  and  sneer; 
She  thought  this  life  was  too  long,  and  wished  slie  could  skip  a  year. 


HOW   THE   KING   LOST   HIS   CROWN.  365 

•'  O  nightingale !  "  cooed  a  dove ;  "  O  nightingale !  what 's  the  use ; 
You  bird  of  beauty  and  love,  why  behave  like  a  goose? 
Don't  skulk  away  from  our  sight,  like  a  common,  contemptible  fowl; 
You  bird  of  joy  and  delight,  why  behave  like  an  owl? 

"  Only  think  of  all  you  have  done;  only  think  of  all  you  can  do; 
A  false  note  is  really  fun  from  such  a  bird  as  you ! 
Lift  up  your  proud  little  crest;  open  your  musical  beak; 
Other  birds  have  to  do  their  best,  you  need  only  to  speak." 

The  nightingale  shyly  took  her  head  from  under  her  wing. 
And  giving  the  dove  a  look,  straightway  began  to  sing. 
There  was  never  a  bird  could  pass;  the  night  was  divinely  calm; 
And  the  people  stood  on  the  grass  to  hear  that  wonderful  psalm ! 

The  nightingale  did  not  care,  she  only  sang  to  the  skies ; 
Her  songs  ascended  there,  and  there  she  fixed  her  eyes. 
The  people  that  stood  below  she  knew  but  little  about; 
And  this  story's  a  moral,  I  know,  if  j'ou  '11  try  to  find  it  out! 

Ingelow. 


HOW  THE  Kma  LOST  HIS  CEOWN. 
rpHE  King's  men,  when  he  had  slain  the  boar, 
-*-      Strung  him  aloft  on  the  fisher's  oar, 
And,  two  behind,  and  two  before, 
In  triumph  bore  him  along  the  shore. 
"  An  o:ir  I  "  says  the  King ;  "  't  is  a  trifle  !  why 
Did  the  fisher  frown  and  the  good  wife  sigh?  " 
"A  trifle,  sire!  "  was  the  Fool's  reply; 
•'  Then  frown  or  laugh  who  will :  for  I, 
Who  laugh  at  all  and  am  only  a  clown. 

Will  never  more  laugh  at  trifles !  " 

A  runner  next  day  leaped  down  the  sand, 
A  nd  launched  a  skifi"  from  the  fisher's  strand ; 
For  he  cried,  "An  array  invades  the  land! 
The  passes  are  seized  on  either  Iiand ! 
And  I  must  carry  my  message  straight 
Across  the  lake  to  the  castle  gate ! " 
The  castle  he  neared,  but  tiie  waves  were  great, 
The  fanged  rocks  foamed  like  jaws  of  Fate ; 
And  lacking  an  oar  the  boat  went  down. 
The  Furies  laugh  at  trifles. 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  swimmer  against  the  waves  began 
To  strive,  as  a  valiant  swimmer  can. 
"Methinks,"  said  the  Fool,  "'twere  no  bad  plan 
If  succor  were  sent  to  the  drowning  man ! " 
To  succor  a  perilled  pawn  instead, 
The  monarch  moving  his  rook  ahead  — 
Bowed  over  the  chessman,  white  and  red  — 
Gave  "  check" — then  looked  on  the  lake  and  said, 
♦'  The  boat  is  lost,  the  man  will  drown ! " 
O  King !  beware  of  trifles ! 

To  the  lords  and  mirthful  dames  the  bard 
Was  trolling  his  latest  song ;  the  guard 
Were  casting  dice  in  the  castle  yard ; 
And  the  captains  all  were  drinking  hard, 
Then  came  the  chief  of  the  halberdiers, 
And  told  to  the  King's  astounded  ears : 
"  An  army  on  every  side  appears ! 
An  army  with  banners  and  bows  and  spears ! 
They  have  gained  the  wall  and  surprised  the  town  I  '■ 
Our  fates  are  woven  of  trifles ! 

The  red  usurper  reached  the  throne ; 
The  tidings  over  the  realm  were  blown : 
And,  flying  to  alien  lauds  alone 
With  a  trusty  few,  the  king  made  moan, 
But  long  and  loudly  laughed  the  clown : 
"We  broke  the  oar  and  the  boat  went  dovm, 
And  so  the  messenger  chanced  to  drown ; 
The  messenger  lost,  we  lost  the  town ; 
And  the  loss  of  the  town  has  cost  a  crown ; 
And  all  these  things  are  trifles ! " 

From  the  Lost  Earl  and  other  Poeriis.  Trowbridge, 


THE  SKATER'S  SONG. 
A  WAY !  away !  our  fires  stream  bright  along  the  frozen  river ;  and 
-^--*-  their  arrowy  sparkles  of  frosty  light  on  the  forest  branches 
quiver.  Away !  away !  for  the  stars  are  forth,  and  on  the  pure  snowa 
of  the  valley,  in  a  giddy  trance,  the  moonbeams  dance  —  come,  let  us 
our  comrades  rally ! 


THE  ERL-KING.  367 

Away!  away!  o'er  the  sheeted  ice,  away,  away  we  go ;  on  our  steel- 
bound  feet  we  move  as  fleet  as  deer  o'er  the  Lapland  snow.  What 
though  the  sharp  north  winds  are  out,  the  skater  heeds  them  not ;  midst 
the  laugh  and  shout  of  the  jocund  rout,  gray  winter  is  forgot. 

'Tis  a  pleasant  siglit,  the  joyous  throng  in  the  light  of  tlie  reddening 
flame,  while,  with  many  a  wheel  on  the  ringing  steel,  they  wage  their 
riotous  game ;  and  though  the  night-air  cutteth  keen,  and  the  white 
moon  shineth  coldly,  their  homes,  I  ween,  on  the  hills  have  been  —  they 
should  breast  the  strong  blast  boldly. 

Let  others  choose  more  gentle  sports   by  t\ie   side  of  the  winter 

hearth ;  or  'neath  the  lamps  of  the  festal  hall  seek  for  their  share  of 

mirth ;    but  as  for  me,  away !  away !  where  the  merry  skaters  be  — 

where  the  fresh  wind  blows  and  the  smooth  ice  glows,  there  is  the  place 

for  me ! 

Pedbody. 

THE  EEL-KUfd. 

r^  WHO  rides  by  night  tliro'  the  Avoodland  so  wild? 
^-^  It  is  the  fond  father  embracing  his  child ; 
And  close  the  boy  nestles  within  his  loved  arm, 
To  hold  himself  fast,  and  to  keep  himself  warm. 

*'  O  father,  see  yonder !  see  yonder !  "  he  says ; 
"  My  boy,  upon  what  dost  thou  fearfully  gaze?  "  — 
"  Oh,  'tis  the  Erl-King  with  his  crown  and  his  shroud." 
"  No,  my  son,  it  is  but  a  dark  wreath  of  the  cloud." 

"  O,  come  and  go  with  me,  tliou  loveliest  child; 
By  many  a  gay  sport  shall  tliy  time  be  beguiled ; 
My  mother  keeps  for  thee  full  many  a  fair  toy, 
And  many  a  fine  flower  shall  she  pluck  for  my  boy." 

"  O  father,  my  father,  and  did  you  not  hear 
The  Erl-King  wliisper  so  low  in  my  ear?"  — 
"  Be  still,  my  heart's  darling  —  my  cliild,  be  at  ease ; 
It  was  but  the  wild  blast  as  it  sung  tlu-o'  the  trees." 

"0  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest  boy? 
My  daughter  shall  tend  thee  with  care  and  with  joy; 
She  shall  bear  thee  so  lightly  thro'  wet  and  thro'  wild, 
And  press  thee,  and  kiss  thee,  and  sing  to  my  child." 


368  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

"  O  father,  my  father,  and  saw  you  not  plahi, 

The  Erl-Iuug's  pale  daughter  glide  past  thro'  the  rain?  "  — 

"  O  yes,  my  loved  treasure,  I  knew  it  full  soon; 

It  was  the  gray  willow  that  danced  to  the  moon." 

*'  O,  come  and  go  with  me,  no  longer  delay, 
Or  else,  silly  child,  I  will  drag  thee  away.  "  — 
"  O  father !  O  father !  now,  now  keep  your  hold, 
The  Erl-King  has  seized  me  —  his  grasp  is  so  cold  ! " 

Sore  trembled  the  father;  he  spurr'd  thro'  the  wild, 
Clasping  close  to  his  bosom  his  shuddering  child; 
He  reaches  his  dwelling  in  doubt  and  in  dread, 
But,  clasp'd  to  his  bosom,  the  infant  was  dead  ! 
Translated  by  Scott.  Qoetho. 

SCENE  FROM  THE  POOR  GENTLEMAN. 

li/fISS  L.  MAC  TAB.     Show  the  gentleman  in.     The  country,  then, 
has  heard  of  my  arrival  at  last.    A  woman  of  condition  in  a  family 
can  never  long  conceal  her  retreat.      OUapod !    that  sounds   like  an 
ancient  name.     If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  is  nobly  descended. 

[Enter  Ollapod. 

OUapod.  Madam,  I  have  the  honor  of  paying  my  respects.  Sweet 
spot  here,  among  the  cows ;  good  for  consumptions.  Cliarming  woods 
hereabouts.  Pheasants  flourish;  so  do  agues.  Sorry  not  to  see  the 
good  lieutenant;  admire  his  room;  hope  soon  to  have  his  company. 
Do  you  take,  good  madam?  —  do  you  take? 

Miss  L.     I  beg,  sir,  you  will  be  seated. 

Ollapod.  (Places  chairs  and  sits  down.)  Oh,  dear  madam.  A  charm- 
lug  chair  to  bleed  in.      (Aside.) 

Miss  L.  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Worthington  is  not  at  home  to  receive  you, 
sir. 

Ollapod.     You  are  a  relation  of  the  lieutenant,  madam? 

Miss  L.  I !  only  by  his  marriage,  I  assure  you,  sir.  Aunt  to  his 
deceased  wife.  But  I  am  not  surprised  at  your  question.  My  friends 
In  town  would  woud-  r  to  see  the  Honorable  Miss  Lucretia  Mac  Tab, 
sister  to  the  late  Lord  Lofty,  cooped  up  in  a  farm-house. 

Ollapod.  (Aside.)  Tlie  honorable!  Humph!  a  bit  of  quality 
tumbled  into  decay.     Tlie  sister  of  a  dead  peer  in  a  pigstyo! 

Miss  L.     You  arc  of  the  military,  I  am  Informed,  sir. 


SCENE  FROM  THE   POOR  GENTLEMAN.  369 

Ollapod.  He,  he!  yes,  madam.  Comet  Ollapod,  of  our  volunteers; 
a  fine  healthy  troop,  ready  to  give  the  enemy  a  dose  whenever  they 
dare  to  attack  us. 

Miss  L.  I  was  always  prodigiously  partial  to  the  military.  My 
great-grandfather,  l^Iarmaduke,  Baron  Lofty,  commanded  a  troop  of 
horse  under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  that  famous  general  of  his  age. 

Ollapod.  Marlborough  was  a  hero  of  a  man,  madam,  and  lived  at 
"Woodstock  —  a  sweet,  sporting  country,  where  Kosamond  perished  by 
poison  —  arsenic  as  like  as  anything. 

3fiss  L.     And  have  you  served  much,  Mr.  Ollapod? 

Ollapod.  He,  he!  Yes,  madam;  served  all  the  nobility  and  gentry 
for  miles  round. 

3fiss  L.     Sir! 

Ollapod.  And  shall  be  happy  to  serve  the  good  lieutenant  and  his 
family. 

Jiliss  L.  We  shall  be  proud  of  your  acquaintance,  sir.  A  gentle- 
man of  the  army  is  always  an  acquisition  among  the  Goths  and  Vandals 
of  the  country,  where  every  sheepish  squire  has  the  air  of  an  apothe- 
cary. 

Ollapod.  Madam!  An  apothe —  Zounds!  —  hum!  He,  he!  I  — 
You  must  know,  I  —  I  deal  a  little  in  Galenicals  mj^self . 

Miss  L.  Galenicals!  Oh,  they  arc  for  operations,  I  suppose,  among 
the  military. 

Ollapod.  Operations !  He,  he !  Come,  that 's  very  well,  very  well, 
indeed.  Thank  you,  good  madam  ;  I  owe  you  one.  Galenicals,  madam, 
are  medicines. 

Miss  L.     Medicines ! 

Ollapod.     Yes,  physic  —  buckthorn,  senna,  and  so  forth. 

Miss  L.     (^Uising.)     Why,  then,  you  are  an  apothecary! 

Ollapod.     (Eising  and  boicing.)     At  your  service,  madam. 

Miss  L.     At  my  service,  indeed! 

Ollapnd.  Yes,  madam;  Cornet  Ollapod,  at  the  "  Gilt  Galen's  Head" 
—  of  the  Volunteer  AssociJtion  Corps  of  cavalry;  as  ready  for  a  foe 
as  a  customer  —  always  willing  to  charge  them  both.  Do  you  take, 
good  madam?  —  do  you  take? 

Miss  L.  And  has  tlie  Honorable  Miss  Lucretla  Mac  Tab  been  talking 
all  this  while  to  a  petty  dealer  in  drugs? 

Ollapod.  Drugs!  (Aside.)  Humph!  she  turns  up  her  honorable 
nose  as  if  she  was  going  to  swallow  them!     (^Aloud.")    No  man  more 


370  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

respected  than  myself,  madam  —  courted  by  the  corps  —  idolized  by 
invalids;  and,  for  a  shot,  ask  my  friend,  Sir  Cliarles  Cropland. 

Miss  L.    Is  Sir  Charles  Cropland  a  friend  of  yours,  sir? 

Ollapod.  Intimate.  He  doesn't  make  wry  faces  at  physic,  what- 
ever others  may  do,  madam.  This  village  flanks  the  intrenchments  of 
his  park  —  full  of  fine  fat  venison,  which  is  as  light  a  food  for  diges- 
tion as  — 

3Iiss  L.     But  he  is  never  on  his  estate  here,  I  am  told. 

Ollapod.     He  quarters  there  at  this  moment. 

Miss  L.     Bless  me !  has  Sir  Charles,  then  — 

Ollapod.  Told  me  all  —  your  accidental  meeting  in  the  metropolis, 
and  his  visits  when  the  lieutenant  was  out. 

Miss  L.     Oh,  shocking!     I  declare  I  shall  faint! 

Ollapod.  Faint!  Never  mind  that,  with  a  medical  man  in  the 
room ;  I  can  bring  you  about  in  a  twinkling. 

Miss  L.  And  what  has  Sir  Charles  Cropland  presumed  to  advance 
about  me? 

Ollapod.  Oh,  nothing  derogatory  —  respectful  as  a  duck-legged 
drummer  to  a  commander-in-chief. 

Miss  L.  I  have  only  proceeded  in  this  affair  from  the  purest  motives, 
and  in  a  mode  becoming  a  Mac  Tab. 

Ollapod.     None  dare  to  doubt  it. 

Miss  L.  And  if  Sir  Charles  has  dropped  in  to  a  dish  of  tea  with 
myself  and  Emily  in  London,  when  tlie  lieutenant  was  out,  I  see  no 
harm  in  it. 

Ollapod.  Nor  I  neither ;  except  that  tea  shakes  the  nervous  system 
to  shatters.  But  to  the  point.  The  baronet's  ray  bosom  friend ;  having 
heard  you  were  here,  "  Ollapod,"  says  he,  squeezing  my  hand  inhis  own, 
which  had  strong  sjTnptoms  of  fever,  —  "Ollapod,"  says  he,  "you 
are  a  military  man,  and  may  be  trusted."  "I'm  a  cornet,"  says  I, 
"  and  close  as  a  pill-box."  "  Fly,  then,  to  Miss  Lucretia  Mac  Tab,  that 
honorable  picture  of  prudence  —  " 

Miss  L.     He,  lie !     Did  Sir  Charles  say  that? 

Ollapod.     (Aside  )     How  these  tabbies  love  to  be  toadied. 

Miss  L.  In  short,  Sir  Charles,  I  perceive,  has  appointed  you  his 
emissary  to  consult  with  me  when  he  may  have  an  interview. 

Ollapod.  Madam,  you  arc  the  sharpest  shot  at  the  truth  I  ever  met 
in  my  life.  And  now  we  arc  in  consultation,  what  tliink  you  of  a  walk 
witli  Miss  Bmily  by  the  old  elms,  at  the  back  of  the  village,  this 
evening  ? 


A  LAUGHING   SONG.  371 

Miss  L.  "Why,  I  am  willing  to  take  any  steps  which  may  promote 
Emily's  futiu'c  welfare. 

Ollapod.  Take  steps!  What,  in  a  walk?  He,  he!  Come,  that's 
very  well  —  very  well,  indeed!  Thank  you,  good  madam;  I  owe  you 
one !  I  shall  communicate  to  my  friend  with  due  despatcli.  Command 
Cornet  Ollapod  on  all  occasions ;  and  whatever  the  gilt  Galen's  Head 
can  produce  — 

Miss  L.     {Gurtesying .)     Oh,  sir! 

Ollapod.  By  the  by,  I  have  some  double-distilled  lavender  water, 
much  admired  in  our  corps.  Permit  me  to  send  a  pint  bottle  by  way 
of  present. 

Miss  L.     Dear  sir,  I  shall  rob  you. 

Ollapod.  Quite  the  contrary  —  {Aside)  —  for  I  '11  set  it  down  to  Sir 
Charles  as  a  quart.  {Bowiiig  to  Lucretia.)  Madam,  your  slave! 
(^Going.)  You  have  prescribed  for  our  patient  like  an  able  physician. 
(Lucretia  crosses.)    Not  a  step ! 

Miss  L.     Nay,  I  insist ! 

Ollapod.  Then  I  must  follow  in  the  rear.  The  physician  always 
before  the  apothecary. 

Miss  L.  Apothecary !  Sir,  in  this  business,  I  look  upon  you  as  a 
general  officer. 

Ollapod.     Do  you?    Thank  you,  good  ma'am ;  I  owe  you  one ! 

Colman. 


A  LAUSHma  SONG. 


"TTTHEN  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  of  joy, 

'  ^       And  the  dimpling  stream  runs  laughing  by ; 
When  the  air  does  laugli  witli  our  merry  wit, 
And  the  green  hill  laughs  with  the  noise  of  it; 

When  the  meadows  laugh  with  lively  green, 

And  the  grasshopper  laughs  in  the  merry  scene: 

When  Mary,  and  Susan,  and  Emily, 

With  their  sweet  round  mouths  sing,  ' '  Ha,  ha,  he !  *• 

When  the  painted  birds  laugh  in  the  shade. 
Where  our  table  with  cherries  and  nuts  is  spread : 
Come  live,  and  be  merry,  and  join  with  me 
To  sing  the  sweet  chorus  of  "  Ha,  ha,  he !  " 


Jilake. 


872  CILASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

THE  "OLD,  OLD  SONG." 
"TTTHEN  all  the  world  is  young,  lad,  and  all  the  trees  are  green; 

'  '     And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad,  and  every  lass  a  queen ; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad,  and  round  the  world  away; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad,  and  every  dog  his  day. 

"When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad,  and  all  the  trees  are  brown ; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad,  and  all  the  Avheels  run  down; 
Creep  home  and  take  your  place  there,  the  spent  and  ff-.aimed  among ; 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there  you  loved  when  all  was  young. 

LADY  tmi  AND  THE  LION. 
/^NE  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  ii-ksome  way, 
^-^     From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay, 

In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 

From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  laid  her  stole  aside  :  her  angel's  face, 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place : 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 

A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood : 

Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 

With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily 
To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse ; 

But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh. 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse. 
And,  with  the  sight  amazed,  forgat  his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof,  he  kiss'd  her  weary  feet, 

And  licked  her  lily  hands  with  fawning  tongue, 

As  he  lier  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 

Oh,  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong! 

Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  sulmilsslon, 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  markM  long, 

Her  heart  'gan  niclt  in  great  compassion, 

And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  afl«ctl6n. 


BE  PATIENT.  373 

"  The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field," 

Quoth  slie,  "  liis  princely  puissance  doth  abat«, 

And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield, 
Forgetful  of  the  liungry  rage  which  late 
Ilira  pricl^'d,  in  pity  of  ray  sad  estate :  — 

But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord, 

How  docs  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 

Her  that  him  loved,  and  ever  most  adored 

As  the  god  of  my  life?  why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd?  "^ 

Redounding  tears  did  choak  th'  end  of  her  plaint. 

Which  softly  echo'd  from  the  neighbour  wood; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, 

The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood; 

With  pity  calm'd,  down  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  heart  shutting  up  her  pain, 

Arose  tlie  virgin  born  of  heavenly  brood. 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  again. 
To  seek  her  strayed  Champion  if  she  might  attain. 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 

But  with  her  went  along  as  a  strong  guard 

Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faitliful  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard : 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward ; 

And  when  she  waked,  he  waited  diligent. 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepared : 

From  her  fair  eyes  he  took  commandement. 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived  her  Intent, 

Edmund  Sp«i*»Ok 

KB  PATTEUT. 
"DE  patient!  oh,  be  patient!    Put  your  tax  against  the  earth; 
-^-^     Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o'  the  seed  has  birth  — 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its  little  way, 
Till  it  parts  the  scarcely  broken  ground,  and  the  blade  stands  up  In  day. 

Be  patient !  oh,  be  patient !    The  germs  of  mighty  thought 

Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth  —  must  underground  be  wrought, 

But  as  sure  as  there's  a  Power  tliat  makes  the  grass  appear. 

Our  land  shall  be  green  with  liberty,  the  blade-time  shall  be  here. 


374  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient!  —  go  and  watcli  the  wlieat-ears  grow  — 
So  imperceptibly  that  ye  can  mark  nor  change  nor  throe  — 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  till  the  ear  is  fully  grown  — 
And  then  again  day  after  day,  till  the  ripened  field  is  brown. 

Be  patient !  oh,  be  patient !  —  though  yet  our  hopes  are  green, 

The  harvest-fields  of  freedom  shall  be  crowned  with  sunny  sheen. 

Be  ripening !  be  ripening !  —  mature  your  silent  way. 

Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with  fire  on  freedom's  harvest-day 

lAnion . 


EACH  AND  ALL. 


T  ITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  j^on  red-cloaked  clown, 

-*— '     Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm. 

Far  heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder-bough ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now, 
for  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky ;  — 
He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

fe'resh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave ; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  mo. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shoro 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar. 


LEAD,  KINDLY   LIGHT.  375 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed. 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage. 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage;  — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  l)ut  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "  I  covet  truth ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath. 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cone^'  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard. 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ;  — 

Beauty  through  ray  senses  stole ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

Emerson. 


LEAD,  KINDLY   LIGHT. 

IEAD,  kindly  Light,  amid  th'  encircling  gloom,  lead  Thou  me  on; 
-^    The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home,  lead  Thou  me  on; 
Keep  thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  thou  shouldst  lead  me  on ; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now  lead  Thou  me  on! 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will.     Remember  not  past  years ! 

So  long  thy  power  has  blest  me,  sure  it  still  will  lead  me  on 

O'er  mojr  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till  the  night  is  gone, 

And  with  tlie  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 

Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile ! 

2fewman> 


876  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

THE  HAT. 

"TTTELL,  yes  !     On  Tuesday  last  the  knot  was  tied  — 

*  '        Tied  hard  and  fast ;  that  cannot  be  denied. 
Who  would  have  thought  it?     Married  !     IIow?    What  for? 
I  who  was  ranked  a  strict  old  bachelor ; 
I  who  declined  —  and  gave  lame  reasons  why  — 
Five,  six,  good  comfortable  matches;  I 
Married !     A  married  man !     Beyond  —  a  —  doubt  I 
How,  do  you  ask,  came  such  a  thing  about? 
What  made  so  great  a  change,  —  a  change  like  that? 
Imagine.     Guess.     You  give  it  up?    A  hat, 
A  hat,  in  short,  like  all  the  hats  you  see  — 
A  plain  silk  stove-pipe  hat.     This  did  for  me. 
A  plain  black  hat  just  like  the  one  that's  here. 
A  hat?    Why,  yes.     But  how?    Well,  lend  an  ear. 
One  day  this  winter  I  went  out  to  dine. 
All  was  first-rate  —  the  ."style,  the  food,  the  wine. 
The  concert  was  announced  for  half  past  ten, 
And  at  tiiat  hour  I  joineil  a  crowtl  of  men. 
The  ladies,  arm  to  arm,  sweet,  white,  we  found, 
Like  rows  of  sugared  almonds,  seated  round. 
I  leaned  against  the  door  —  there  was  no  chair. 
A  stout,  fierce  gentleman,  got  up  with  care 
(A  cuirassier  I  set  him  down  to  be), 
Leaned  on  the  other  door-post,  hard  by  me,  . 

Whilst  far  off  in  the  distance  some  poor  girl 
Sang,  with  her  lovelorn  ringlets  out  of  curl. 
Some  trashy  stuff  of  love  and  love's  distress. 
I  could  see  nothing,  and  could  hear  still  less, 
Still,  I  applauded,  for  politeness'  sake. 
Next  a  dress-coat  of  fashionable  make 
Came  forward  and  began.     It  clad  a  poet. 
That 's  the  Last  mode  in  Paris.     Did  you  know  It? 
I  blush  to  write  it  —  poems,  you  must  know, 
All  make  me  sleepy  ;  and  it  was  so  now. 
And  a  strange  torpor  I  could  not  ignore 
Came  creeping  o'er  me.     "  Heavens!  suppose  I  snore! 
Let  me  get  out,"  I  cried,  "  or  else  —  "     With  that 
I  cast  my  eyes  around  to  find  my  hat. 


THE  HAT.  377 

The  console  where  I  laul  it  down,  alas! 
"Was  now  surroundod  (not  a  mouse  could  pass) 
By  triple  rows  of  ladies  gajdy  dressed, 
Who  fanned  and  listened  calmly,  undistressed. 
No  man  through  that  fair  crowd  could  work  his  way. 
Rank  behind  rank  rose  heads  in  bright  array. 
Diamonds  were  tliere,  and  flowers,  and,  lower  still, 
Such  lovely  shoulders  !     Not  the  smallest  thrill 
They  raised  in  me.     My  thoughts  were  of  my  hat. 
It  lay  beyond  where  all  those  ladies  sat. 
Under  a  candelabrum,  shiny,  bright. 
Smooth  as  when  last  I  brushed  it,  full  in  sight, 
Whilst  I,  far  off,  with  yearning  glances  tried 
Whether  I  could  not  lure  it  to  my  side. 
«'  Why  may  my  hand  not  put  thee  on  my  head, 
And  quit  this  stifling  room?"  I  fondly  said. 
"Respond,  dear  hat,  to  a  magnetic  throb. 
Come,  little  darling ;  cleave  this  female  mob. 
Fly  over  heads;  creep  under.     Come,  oh,  come! 
Escape.     We'll  find  no  poetry  at  home." 

And  all  the  while  did  that  dull  poem  creep 
Drearily  on,  till,  sick  at  last  with  sleep, 
My  eyes  fixed  straight  before  me  with  a  stare, 
I  groaned  within  me  :  "  Come,  my  hat  —  fresh  air! 
My  darling,  let  us  both  get  out  together. 
Here  all  is  hot  and  close;  outside,  the  weathor 
Is  simply  perfect,  and  the  pavement 's  dry. 
Come,  come,  my  hat  —  one  effort!    Do  but  try. 
Sweet  thoughts  the  silence  and  soft  moon  will  stir 
Beneath  thy  shelter."    Here  a  voice  cried :  "  Sir, 
Have  j'ou  done  staring  at  my  daughter  yet? 
By  Jove !  sir."    My  astonished  glance  here  met 
The  angry  red  face  of  my  cuirassier. 
I  did  not  quail  before  his  look  severe. 
But  said,  politely,  "Pardon,  sir,  but  I 
Do  not  so  much  as  know  her."     "  What,  sir !    Why, 
My  daughter  's  yonder,  sir,  beside  that  table. 
Pink  ribbons,  sir.     Don't  tell  me  you're  unable 
To  understand."    "  But,  sir  —  "    "I  don't  suppose 


378  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

You  mean  to  tell  me  —  "     "Really  —  "     "  Who  but  knows 

Your  Avay  of  dealing  with  young  ladies,  sir? 

I  "11  have  no  trifling,  if  you  please,  with  her." 

"Trifling?  "     "  Yes,  sir.     You  know  you  've  jilted  five. 

Every  one  knows  it—  every  man  alive." 

"  Allow  me  —  "     "No,  sir.     Every  father  knows 

Your  reputation,  damaging  to  those 

Who  —  "     "  Sir,  indeed  —  "     "  How  dare  you  in  this  place 

Stare  half  an  hour  in  my  daughter's  face?" 

"  Sapristi  monsieur  !    I  protest  —  I  swear  — 

I  never  looked  at  her."     "  Indeed !     What  were 

You  looking  at,  then?  "    "  Sir,  I  '11  tell  you  fat,  — 

My  hat,  sir."     "Morhleu  !  looking  at  your  hat ! " 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  ims  my  hat."    My  color  rose : 

He  angered  me,  this  man  who  would  suppose 

I  thought  of  nothing  but  his  girl.     Meantime 

The  black  coat  maundered  on  in  dreary  rhyme. 

Papa  and  I,  getting  more  angry  ever, 

Exchanged  flerce  glances,  speaking  both  together. 

While  no  one  round  us  knew  what  we  were  at. 

"  It  was  my  daughter,  sir."     "  No,  sir  —  my  hat." 

"  Speak  lower,  gentlemen,"  said  some  one  near. 

«'  You  '11  give  account  for  this,  sir.     Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  sir."     "  Then  before  the  world  's  astir 

You  '11  get  my  card,  sir."    "  I  '11  be  ready,  sir." 

A  pretty  quarrel !     Don't  you  think  it  so? 

A  moment  after,  all  exclaimed,  "  Bravo !  " 

Black  coat  had  finished.     All  the  audience  made 

A  general  move  toward  ice  and  lemonade. 

The  coast  was  clear ;  my  way  was  open  now; 

My  hat  was  mine.     I  made  my  foe  a  bow, 

And  hastened,  fast  as  lover  could  have  moved, 

Through  trailing  trains,  toward  the  dear  thing  I  loved. 

I  tried  to  reach  it.     "  Here  's  the  hat,  I  think, 

You  are  in  search  of."    Shapely,  soft,  and  pink, 

A  lovely  arm,  a  perfect  arm,  held  out 

My  precious  hat.     Impelled  by  sudden  doubt, 

I  raised  my  eyes.     Pink  ribbons  trimmed  her  dress. 

"  Here,  monsieur,  take  it.     'T  was  not  hard  to  guess 


THE   HAT.  379 

What  made  you  look  tliis  way.    You  longed  to  go. 

You  were  so  sleepy,  uodding  —  see !  — just  so. 

Ah,  how  I  wished  to  help  you,  if  I  could! 

I  might  have  passed  it  possibly.     I  would 

Have  tried  by  ladies'  chain,  from  hand  to  hand, 

To  send  it  to  you,  but,  you  understand, 

I  felt  a  little  timid  —  don't  you  see?  — 

For  fear  they  might  suppose  —    Ali !  pardon  me ; 

I  am  too  prone  to  tallc.     I  'm  Ivceping  you. 

Take  it.     Good  night."     Sweet  angel,  pure  and  truel 

My  looks  to  their  real  cause  she  could  refer, 

And  never  thought  one  glance  was  meant  for  her. 

Oh,  simple  trust  pure  from  debasing  wiles  1 

I  took  my  hat  from  her  fair  hand  with  smiles, 

And  liurrying  back,  souglit  out  my  wliilom  foe, 

Exclaiming :  "  Hear  me,  sir.     Before  I  go 

Let  me  explain.    You,  sir,  were  in  the  right. 

'T  w^as  not  my  hat  attracted  me  to-night. 

Forgive  me,  pardon  me,  I  entreat,  dear  sir. 

I  love  your  daughter,  and  I  gazed  at  her." 

"  You,  sir?  "    He  turned  his  big  round  eyes  on  me, 

Then  held  his  hand  out.     "  "Well,  well,  we  will  see." 

Next  day  Ave  talked.     That 's  how  it  came  about, 

And  the  result  you  sec.     My  secret 's  out. 

It  was  last  Tuesday,  as  I  said,  and  even 

Add,  she  's  an  angel,  and  my  home  is  —  heaven. 

Her  father,  mild  in  spite  of  mien  severe. 

Holds  a  high  ofllce  —  is  no  cuirassier. 

Besides  —  a  boon  few  bridegrooms  can  command  — 

He  is  a  widower  —  so  —  you  understand. 

Now  all  this  happiness,  beyond  a  doubt, 

By  this  silk  hat  I  hold  was  brought  about. 

Or  I)y  its  brotlier.     Poor  old  Englisli  tile ! 

Many  have  sneered  at  thy  ungainly  style; 

Many,  with  ridicule  and  gibe  —  wliy  not?  — 

Have  dubbed  thee  "  stove-pipe,"  called  thee  "  chimney-pot.* 

They,  as  assthetes,  are  not  far  wrong,  maybe ; 

But  I,  for  all  that  thou  hast  done  for  me, 

Eaise  tliee,  in  spite  of  nonsense  sung  or  said. 

With  deep  respect,  and  pl:ice  thee  on  my  iiead. 


380  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

"Well,  yes!    On  Tuesday  last  the  knot  was  tied  — 
Tied  hard  and  fast ;  that  cannot  be  denied. 
I  'm  caught,  I  'm  caged,  from  the  law's  point  of  view, 
Before  two  witnesses,  good  men  and  true. 
I  "m  licensed,  stamped ;  undo  the  deed  who  can : 
Three  hundred  francs  made  me  a  married  man. 
Abridged/rom  Harper's  Magazine.  JfitrmaMd. 


SWEET  WTLLI^jyi'S  GHOST. 

AS  May  Margaret  sat  in  her  bowerie,  in  her  bower  all  alone, 
Just  at  the  parting  o'  midnight,  she  heard  a  mournful  moan. 
"  Oh,  is  it  my  father,  oh,  is  it  my  mother,  oh,  is  it  my  brother  John ; 
Or  is  it  Sweet  William,  my  ain  true  love,  to  Scotland  nev  come  home?" 

•'  It  is  na  thy  father,  it  is  na  tliy  mother,  it  is  na  thy  brother  John  ; 
But  it  is  Sweet  "Wiliiam,  thy  ain  true  love,  to  Scotland  new  come  home." 
"  Oh,  hae  ye  brought  onie  fine  things,  onie  new  things  for  to  wear, 
Or  hae  ye  brought  me  a  braid  of  lace  to  snood  up  my  gowden  hair?** 

"  I  've  brought  you  no  fine  things,  nor  onie  new  things  to  wear. 
Nor  have  I  brought  you  a  braid  of  lace  to  snood  up  your  gowden  hair. 
O  dear  Margaret,  O  sweet  Margaret,  I  pray  thee  speali  to  me; 
Gie  me  my  faith  and  troth,  Margaret,  as  I  gave  it  to  thee ! " 

«•  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou 's  never  get,  nor  yet  will  I  thee  lend. 
Till  thou  come  within  my  bower  and  kiss  my  cheek  and  chin." 
"  If  I  should  come  within  tliy  bower,  —  I  am  no  mortal  man,  — 
And  should  I  kiss  thy  rosy  lips,  thy  days  would  not  be  lang. 
*'  0  dear  Margaret,  O  sweet  Margaret,  I  pray  thee  speak  to  m«; 
Gie  me  my  faith  and  treth,  Margaret,  as  I  gave  it  to  thee  I  " 
"  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou 's  never  get,  nor  yet  will  I  thoe  lead, 
TiU  thou  take  me  to  you  kirk-yard,  and  wed  me  with  a  ring." 

"  My  bonee  are  buried  in  yon  klrk-yard,  afar  beyond  the  sea, 

And  't  is  but  my  spirit,  Margaret,  tlmt  's  speaking  now  to  thee  I  " 

She  stretched  out  her  lily-white  liand,  and  for  to  do  her  best; 

•'  Hae  there  your  faith  and  trotli,  Willy,  God  send  your  soul  to  rest!" 

And  now  she  has  kilted  her  robes  of  ^ecn  a  piece  oelow  the  knee, 

And  a*  the  llve-lang  winter  night  the  dea'l  corpse  followed  she. 

«'  Is  there  onie  room  at  your  head,  Willy,  oc  onie  room  at  your  feet. 

Is  there  onie  room  at  your  side,  Willy,  wherein  that  I  may  creep?  " 


TINTERN  ABBEY.  381 

"  There 's  na  room  at  my  head,  Margaret,  there 's  na  room  at  mj  feet, 
There's  na  room  at  my  side,  Margaret,  my  coflln's  made  so  meet." 
Then  up  and  crew  the  red,  red  cock,  and  up  then  crew  the  gray; 
«'  'T  is  time,  't  is  time,  my  dear  Margaret,  that  you  were  going  away ! " 

No  more  the  ghost  to  Margaret  said,  but  with  a  grievous  groan 
Evanished  in  a  cloud  of  mist  and  left  her  all  alone. 
"  O  stay,  my  only  true  love,  stay!  "  the  constant  Margaret  cried; 
Wan  grew  her  cheeks,  she  closed  her  een,  stretched  her  soft  limbs,  and 
died. 

Arr<mg3d  from  Uifferetit  editions.  Old  Ballad. 


THOSE  EVEIHNG  BELLS. 

THOSE  evening  bells  I  those  evening  bell*  I 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime ! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone,  — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  tliese  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Thoman  Moore, 


TINTERN  ABBEY. 

FIVE  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 
Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.     Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  tlie  quiet  of  tlie  sky. 
The  day  Is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 


382  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Tnese  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 
Which  at  this  season,  with  tlieir  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedgerows  —  hardly  hedgerows  —  little  Uneg 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :  these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees. 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye ; 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  :  feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure;  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life— 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime  :  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 
Is  lightened ;  that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  aflcctions  gently  lead  us  on, 
Until,  the  Ijrcath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  liuman  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  l)()dy,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  cjuiet  by  the  power 


TINTERN    ABBEY.  S8S 

Of  harmony,  and  tlie  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !  hoAV  oft. 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight,  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world. 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye !     Thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half -extinguished  thought: 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
Thd  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again ; 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  tliere  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope. 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  tliese  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  Natui'e  then 
(The  coarser  pleasui'es  of  my  boyish  days. 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all.     I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood. 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite,  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  ne^  1  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.     That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 


%Si  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.    For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts :  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 

And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  ej'e  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts ;  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  aU  my  moral  being.  Wordmorth 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

OUR  band  Is  few,  but  true  and  tried,  our  leader  frank  and  bold 
The  British  soldier  trembles  when  Marion's  name  is  toki. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  green  wood,  our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us,  as  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines,  its  glades  of  reedy  grass. 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands  witliin  the  dar'   morass. 

Wo  to  the  Englisli  soldiery  that  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midniglit  a  strange  and  sudden  fear : 
When  waking  to  their  tents  on  Are  they  grasp  their  arma  In  rain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us  are  beat  to  earth  again ; 


THE   LAST   RIDE   TOGETHER.  88& 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem  a  mighty  host  behind, 

And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands  upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release  from  danger  and  from  toll ; 

We  talk  the  battle  over,  and  share  the  battle's  spoil. 

The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout,  as  if  a  hunt  were  up, 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered  to  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 

With  merry  songs  we  moclc  the  wind  that  in  the  pine-top  grieves. 

And  slumber  long  and  sweetly,  on  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon  the  band  that  Marion  leads  — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles,  the  scampering  of  their  steeds. 

'T  is  life  our  fiery  barbs  to  guide  across  the  moonlit  plains ; 

'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind  tliat  lifts  their  tossing  manes. 

A  moment  in  the  British  camp  —  a  moment  —  and  away 

Back  to  the  pathless  forest,  before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee,  grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion,  for  Marion  are  their  prayers. 

And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band,  with  kindliest  welcoming, 

With  smiles  like  those  of  summer,  and  tears  like  those  of  spring. 

For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms,  and  lay  thcra  down  no  more 

TUl  we  have  driven  the  Briton,  forever,  from  our  shore. 


THE  LAST  EIDE  TOGETHEE. 
"T   SAID  —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
-*-     Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails. 
Since  all  my  life  seemed  meant  for  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be  — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness ! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave,  —  I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
—  And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through. 
Fixed  me  a  brealhiiig-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance :  right  I 


886  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  blood  replenished  me  again ; 
My  last  tliouglit  was  at  least  Jiot  vain; 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 

Hush !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions  —  sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once  — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  j'our  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  liere !  — ^ 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered  —  joy  and  fear 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  wlio  succeeds? 
We  rode ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  cither  side. 
I  thought,  —  All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  pastl 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me ;  here  we  ride. 


THE   LAST   RIDE   TOGETHER.  887 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired? 
What  lieart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  l)ut  felt  the  fleshy  screen? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There 's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing!  what  atones? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'T  is  something,  nay  't  is  much :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what 's  best  for  men  ? 
Are  you  —  poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time  — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  have  never  turned  a  rhyme? 

Sing,  riding 's  a  joy !     For  mc,  I  ride. 

And  you,  great  sculptor  —  so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave. 
And  that 's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
•'  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end!* 

I  gave  my  youth;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

Who  knows  what 's  fit  for  us?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being  —  had  I  signed  the  bo^'i  — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 
Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 


388  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such?    Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 
Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

And  yet  —  she  has  not  spoke  so  long ! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity,  — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride? 


Browning. 


EHTME  OF  THE  DUCHESS  MAT. 

ON  the  south  side  and  the  west,  a  small  river  runs  in  haste,   Toll  slowly. 
And  between  the  river  flowing  and  the  fair  green  trees  a-growing 

Do  the  dead  lie  at  their  rest. 
On  the  east  I  sate  that  day,  up  against  a  willow  gray :  Toll  ilowly. 

Through  the  rain  of  willow-branches,  I  could  see  the  low  hill-ranges, 

And  the  river  on  its  way. 
There  I  read  this  ancient  rhyme,  while  the  bell  did  all  the  time    Toll  slowly. 
And  the  solemn  knell  fell  in  with  the  tale  of  life  and  sin. 

Like  a  rhythmic  fate  sublime. 
Broad  the  forests  stood  (I  read)  on  the  hills  of  Linteged—    Toll  slowly. 
And  three  hundred  years  had  stood  mute  adown  each  hoary  wood, 

Lilie  a  full  heart  having  prayed. 
And  tlie  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west.    Till  slowly. 
And  but  little  tliouglit  was  tlieirs,  of  the  silent  anli(iue  years, 

In  the  building  of  tlicir  nest. 
Down  the  sun  dropt  large  and  red,  on  the  towers  of  Linteged,  — ♦ 
lance  and  spear  upon  the  height,  bristling  strange  in  fiery  light, 

While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS   MAY.  389 

And  five  hundred  archers  tall  did  besiege  the  castle  wall,  Toll  slowly. 

And  castle,  seethed  in  blood,  foui'teen  days  and  nights  had  stood. 

And  to-night  was  near  its  fall. 
Yet  thereunto,  blind  to  doom,  three  months  since,  a  bride  did  come,  — * 
One  who  proudly  trod  the  floors,  and  softly  wliispercd  in  the  doors, 

"  May  good  angels  bless  our  home."^ 

'T  was  a  Duke's  fair  orphan-girl,  and  her  uncle's  ward,  the  Earl,* 
Who  betrothed  her,  twelve  years  old,  for  the  sake  of  dowry  gold, 
To  his  son  Lord  Leigh,  the  churl. 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good  all  her  years  of  womanhood,* 
Unto  both  those  Lords  of  Leigh,  spake  she  out  right  sovranly, 

"  My  will  nmneth  as  my  blood. 
And  while  this  same  blood  makes  red  this  same  right  hand's  veins," 

she  said,  toIi  tiowiy. 

"  'T  is  my  will  as  lady  free,  not  to  wed  a  Lord  of  Leigh, 

But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged." 

The  old  Earl  he  smiled  smooth,  then  he  sighed  for  wilful  youth,  —  * 
"  Good  my  niece,  that  hand  withal  looketh  somewhat  soft  and  small 

For  so  large  a  will,  in  sooth." 
She,  too,  smiled  by  that  same  sign,  —  but  her  smile  was  cold  and  fine,  —  ♦ 
"  Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold ;  or  it  were  not  worth  the  hold 

Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine !  " 
Then  the  young  lord  jerked  his  breath,  and  sware  thickly  in  his  t«*eth, 
"  He  would  wed  his  own  betrothed,  an  she  loved  him,  and  sho  loathed. 

Let  the  life  come,  or  tlie  death." 
Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her  father's  child  might  rise,* 
"  Thy  hound's  blood,  my  Lord  of  Leigh,  stains  thy  knightly  heel,"  quoth 
she, 

"  And  he  moans  not  where  he  lies ; 
But  a  woman's  will  dies  hard,  in  the  hall  or  on  the  sward !  —     Toll  tlowly. 
By  that  grave,  my  lords,  which  made  me  orphaned  girl  and  dowered 
lady, 

I  deny  you  wife  and  ward." 
Unto  each  she  bowed  her  head,  and  swept  past  with  lofty  tread.* 
Ere  the  midnight-bell  had  ceased,  in  the  chapel  had  the  priest 

Blessed  her,  bride  of  Linteged. 
Fast  and  fain  the  bridal  train  along  the  night-storm  rode  amain  :♦ 
Hard  the  steeds  of  lord  and  serf  struck  their  hoofs  out  on  tlie  turf. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 


890  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

Fast  and  fain  the  kinsmen's  train  along  the  storm  pursued  amain  — • 
Steed  on  stecd-traclv,  dashhig  oft' — thiclvening,  doubliug  hoof  on  hoof. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 
And  the  bridegroom  led  the  fliglit  on  his  red-roan  steed  of  might,* 
And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as  if  she  feared  no  harm. 

Smiling  out  into  the  niglit. 
"Dost  thou  fear?"  he  said  at  last.  —  "Nay!"  she  answered  him  in 

haste,  —  * 
"  Not  such  death  as  we  could  find  —  only  life  with  one  behind  — 

Ride  on  fast  as  fear  —  ride  fast !  " 
Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed  —  girth  to  ground,  and  fetlocks 
spread,—  Toil  siotciy. 

Headlong  bounds,  and  rocking  flanks, —  down  he  staggered  —  dowu  the 
banks. 
To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 
High  and  low  the  serfs  looked  out,  red  the  flambeaus  tossed  about  — * 
In  the  court-yard  rose  the  cry  —  "  Live  the  Duchess  and  Sir  Guy !  " 

But  she  never  heard  them  shout. 
On   the  steed  she  dropt  her  cheek,  kissed  his  mane  and  kissed  his 
neck, —  Tolltlowly. 

Vd  happier  died  by  thee,  than  lived  on  a  Lady  Leigh," 

Were  the  first  words  she  did  speak. 
i   three  months'  joyaunoe  lay  'twixt  that  moment  and  to-day,* 
Whea  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand  beside  the  castle  Avail, 

To  recapture  Duchess  May. 
And  the  castle  standetli  black,  with  the  red  sun  at  its  back,  —     Toll  nioioii/. 
And  a  fortnight's  siege  is  done  —  and,  except  tlie  Duchess,  none 

Can  misdoubt  the  coming  wrack. 
Then  the  captain,  young  Lord  Leigh,  Avith  his  eyes  so  gray  of  blee,* 
And  tliin  lips  that  scarcely  sheath  the  cold  white  gnasliing  of  his  teeth 

Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently, 
Cried  aloud  —  "So  goes  the  day,  bridegroom  fair  of  Duchess  May  i  —  ♦ 
Look  thy  last  upon  that  sun.     If  thou  seest  to-morrow's  one, 

'T  will  be  through  a  foot  of  clay." 
O  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west,        Toll  slowly. 
O,  and  lauglied  tlie  Diicliess  May,  and  her  soul  did  put  away 

All  his  boa^iting,  for  a  jest. 
In  her  chamber  did  she  sit,  laughing  low  to  think  of  it,  —      TotlDioxoiy. 
*♦  Tower  is  strong  and  will  is  free  —  tliou  canst  boast,  my  Lord  of  Leigh, 
But  tliou  boastcst  little  wiL" 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS   MAY.  391 

0,  the  little  birds  sang  cast,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west,      Toll  slowly. 
On  the  tower  the  castle's  lord  leant  in  silence  on  his  sword, 

Witli  an  anguish  in  his  breast. 
With  a  spirit-laden  weight,  did  he  lean  down  passionate.  ToU slowly. 

They  have  almost  sapped  the  wall,—  they  will  enter  tliere  witlial, 

With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 
'•If  we  met  them  at  tlie  wa  1,  we  should  singly,  vainly  full, —     Toll  slowty 
But  if  /die  here  alone,  —then  1  die,  wiio  am  but  one. 

And  die  nobly  for  them  all. 
These  shall  never  die  for  me  —  life-blood  falls  too  heavily :      Toll  atoicly. 
And  if  I  die  here  apart,—  o'er  my  dead  and  silent  heart 

They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 
When  the  foe  hath  heard  it  said  —  *  Death  holds  Guy  of  Linteged,*—  • 
That  new  corse  new  peace  shall  bring;  and  a  blessed,  blessed  thing, 

Shall  the  stone  be  at  its  head. 
Then  my  friends  shall  pass  out  free,  and  shall  bear  my  memory,—* 
Then  my  foes  shall  sleek  their  pride,  soothing  fair  my  widowed  bride 

Whose  sole  sin  was  love  of  me. 
She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears,  she  will  pray  her  woman's  prayers,  —  * 
But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain,  and  her  hopes  will  spring  again 

By  the  suntime  of  her  years. 
Ah,  sweet  ]\Iay  —  ah,  SAvcetest  grief '  — once  I  vowed  thee  my  belief,* 
That  tliy  name  expressed  thy  sweetness,  —  May  of  poets,  in  complete- 
ness ! 

Now  my  May-day  seemeth  brief." 
All  these  silent   tlioughts  did  swim  o'er  his  eyes  grf)wn  strange  and 
dim,—  Tollnlowty. 

Till  his  true  men  in  the  p'ace,  wished  tliey  stood  there  face  to  face 

With  the  foe  instead  of  him. 
"  One  last  boon,  young  Kalpli  and  Clare  .'  faithful  hearts  to  do  and  dare  !  * 
Bring  that  steed  up  from  h  s  stall,  which  she  kissed  before  you  all, 

Guide  him  up  the  turret  stair. 
Ye  shall  harness  him  aright,  aiul  lead  upward  to  this  height !     Toll  slowly. 
Once  in  love  and  twice  in  war  liath  he  borne  me  strong  and  far, 

He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night." 
Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro,  wlien  they  heard  him  speaking  so.* 
—  '"Las!  the  noble  heart,"  they  thought,  —  'he  in  sooth  is  grief-dis* 
traught. 

Would,  we  stood  here  with  the  foe !  " 
But  a  fire  flashed  from  his  eye,  'twixt  their  thought  and  their  reply,  — * 


392  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

"  Have  ye  so  much  time  to  waste !     'We  who  ride  here,  must  ride  fast, 

As  we  wish  our  foes  to  fly." 
They  have  fetched  the  steed  with  care,  in  the  harness  he  did  wear,* 
Past  the  court  and  through  the  doors,  across  the  rushes  of  the  floors, 

But  they  goad  him  up  the  stair. 
Then  from  out  her  bower  chambere,  did  tlie  Duchess  May  repair.* 
"  Tell  me  now  what  is  your  need,"  said  the  lady,  "  of  this  steed, 

That  ye  goad  him  up  the  stair?  " 
"  Get  thee  back,  sweet  Duchess  May !  hope  is  gone  like  j'esterday,  —  * 
One  half-hour  completes  the  breach ;  and  thy  lord  grows  wild  of  speech, 

Get  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray. 
In  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  loud  he  cries  for  steed  from  stall.* 
He  would  ride  as  far,'  quoth  he,  "  as  for  love  and  victory. 

Though  he  rides  the  castle  wall. 
Get  thee  in,  thou  soft  ladie !  —  here  is  never  a  place  for  thee !  —  * 
Braid  thy  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown,  that  thy  beauty  in  its  moan 

May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of  Leigh." 
She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a  pale  yet  stately  face,  —      Toll  slowly. 
"  Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to !  —  Judge  no  more  what  ladies  do,  — 

No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride !  " 
Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took,  and  his  neck  did  kiss  and  stroke  :  * 
Soft  he  neighed  to  answer  her ;  and  then  followed  up  the  stair, 

For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 
Oh,  and  steeply,  steeply  wound  up  the  narrow  stair  around,  —  * 
Oh,  and  closely  ft^eeding,  step  by  step  beside  her  treading. 

Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 
On  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  —  there,  where  never  a  hoof  did  fall, —  • 
Out  they  swept,  a  vision  steady,  — noble  steed  and  lovely  lady, 

Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall ! 
Down  she  knelt  at  her  lord's  knee,  and  she  looked  up  silently,  —  * 
And  he  kissed  her  twice  and  tlirice,  for  that  look  within  her  eyes 

Which  he  could  not  bear  to  see. 
Quoth  he,  '•  Get  thee  from  this  strife,  —  and  the  sweet  saints  bless 

thy  life  !  —  Toll  slowly. 

In  this  hour,  I  stand  in  need  of  my  noble  red-roan  steed  — 

But  no  more  of  my  noble  wife." 
"  Now  by  womanliood's  degree,  and  by  wifehood's  verity,        Toll  slowly- 
In  this  hour  if  tliou  hast  need  of  thy  noble  red-roan  steed, 

Thou  hast  also  need  of  me." 


RHYME    OF   TIIK    DUCHESS   MAY.  393 

Oh,  he  sprang  up  in  the  selle,  and  he  laughed  out  bitter  well,  —  ♦ 
"  Wouldst  thou  ride  among  the  leaves,  as  we  used  on  other  eves, 

To  hear  chime  a  vesper  bell?  " 
She  clang  closer  to  his  knee —  "  Ay,  beneath  the  cypi-ess-tree !  —  * 
Mock  me  not ;  for  otherwhere  than  along  the  gi'een-wood  fair, 

Ilnve  I  ridden  fast  with  thee  ! 
Fast  I  rode  witli  new-made  vows,  from  my  angry  kinsman's  house !  "  ♦ 
Ho !  the  breach  yawns  into  ruin,  and  roars  up  against  her  suing,  — 
With  the  Inarticulate  din,  and  the  dreadful  falling  in  — 

Shrieks  of  doing  and  undoing  ! 
Twice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain ;  but  the  small  hands  closed  again. 
Back  he  reined  the  steed  —  back,  back !  but  she  trailed  along  his  track 

With  a  frantic  clasp  and  strain! 
Evermore  the  f oeraan  pour  tlirough  the  crash  of  window  and  door,  — 
And  the  shouts  of  Leigh  and  Leigh,  and  the  shrieks  of  "kill!  "  and 
"flee!" 

Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar. 
Thrice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain,  —  but  they  closed  and   clung 
again, —  Tollsioiciy. 

Wild  she  clung,  as  one,  withstood,  clasps  a  Christ  upon  the  rood, 

In  a  spasm  of  deathly  pain. 
Back  he  reined  his  steed  back-thrown  on  the  slippery  coping-stone.* 
Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the  battlement  behind, 

Whence  a  hundred  feet  went  down. 
And  his  heel  did  press  and  goad  on  the  quivering  flank  bestrode,* 
"  Friends  and  brothers,  save  my  wife  I  —  Pardon,  sweet,  in  change  for 
life,  — 

But  I  ride  alone  to  God." 
Straight  as  if  the  Holy  name  had  upbreathed  her  /Ike  a  flame,    Toll  slowly. 
She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright,  —  in  his  selle  she  sate  in  sight; 

By  her  love  she  overcame. 
And  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  where  she  smiled  as  one  at  rest,  —  * 
"  Ring,"  she  cried,  "  O  vesper-bell,  in  the  beach-wood's  old  chapelle! 

But  the  passing-bell  rings  best." 
They  have  caught  out  at  the  reiu,  which  Sir  Guy  threw  loose  —  in  vain,* 
For  the  horse  in  stark  despair,  with  his  front  hoofs  poised  in  air. 

On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 
Now  he  hangs,  he  rocks  between  —  and  his  nostrils  curdle  in,  —  * 
Now  he  shivers  head  and  lioof  —  and  tlie  flakes  of  foam  fall  off; 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin! 


394  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  "  Ring,  ring,  —  tliou  passing-bell,"  still  she  cried,  "  i'  the  old  cha- 

pelle  !  "  Toll  slowly. 

Then  back-toppling,  crashing  back,  a  dead  weight  flung  out  to  wrack. 

Horse  and  riders  overfell! 

Mrs.  Browning. 
*  Toll  slowly,  in  the  original.      

THE  POET'S  DEEAM. 

/  ^  N  a  poet's  lips  I  slept, 

^^     Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses 

But  feeds  ou  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be,  — 

But  from  these  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man. 

Nurslings  of  Immortality. 

Shelley. 


NATURE  AND  THE  POET. 

I  "WAS  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  pile! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  tliee: 
I  saw  thee  every  day;  and  all  the  wliile 
Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air ! 

So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day! 
Wlicnc'er  I  look'd,  tliy  image  still  was  there; 

II  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm !     It  seemed  no  sleep, 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings  : 

I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah !  then,  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand, 
To  express  wliat  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream,  — 


'   NATURE  AND   THE   POET.  895 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile! 

Amid  a  world  how  diflcrent  from  tliis ! 
-Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 
\  On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

rhou  shouldst  have  seemed  a  treasure-house,  a  mine 
Of  peaceful  years ;  a  chronicle  of  Heaven  :  — 

Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine, 

The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  picture  hud  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 

Elysian  quiet,  without  ton  or  strife; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 

Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made ; 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 
A  faith,  a  trust,  that  could  not  be  betray'd. 

So  once  it  would  have  been,  —  "tis  so  no  more ; 

I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore ; 

A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 

A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been : 
The  feeling  of  ray  loss  will  ne'er  be  old ; 

This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  friend !  Avho  would  have  been  the  friend 

If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 
This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend, 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

Oh,  'tis  a  passionate  work!  —  yet  wise  and  well; 

Well  chosen  is  clie  spirit  that  is  here ; 
That  hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly  swell, 

This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear! 

And  this  huge  castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves 
^  Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old  time  — 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 


396  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  iu  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  kind  I 

Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 

And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here, — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 
On  a  Picture  of  Peel  Gaslle  in  a  Storm.  WbrdatoortA 


I 


AFTE2  BLEiraEIM, 
T  was  a  summer  evening,  old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door  was  sitthig  in  the  sun; 
And  bj'^  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Willielmine. 


She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin  roll  something  large  and  round 
"Which  he  beside  the  rivulet  iu  playing  there  had  found ; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 
That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy  who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  Avith  a  natural  sigh, 

"  'T  is  some  poor  fellow's  sIojII,"  said  he, 

"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden,  for  there  's  many  hereabout; 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plough  the  ploughshare  turns  them  out. 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  't  was  all  about,"  young  Peterkin  he  cries} 
And  little  Williolmine  looks  up  with  wonder-waiting  eyes; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

*'  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried,  "who  put  the  French  to  rout; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for  I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

'*  Tliat  't  wns  a  famous  victory. 


THROUGH   THE   METIDJA.  897 

•'  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then,  yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground,  and  he  was  forced  to  fly : 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 

Nor  had  lie  where  to  rost  his  liead. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round  was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childlng  mother  then  and  new-born  baby  died: 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory, 

'•  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight  after  tlie  Held  was  won; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here  lay  rotting  m  the  sun  ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

After  a  famous  victory 

•'  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro"  won  and  our  good  Prince  Eugene"; 
'*  Why,  't  was  a  very  wicked  thing !  "  said  little  Wilhelmine ; 

"Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victorJ^ 

•'  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke  who  this  great  flght  did  win." 
*•  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?  "  quoth  little  Pcterkin. 

"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"  But 't  was  a  famous  victory." 

Southey. 


THEOUGH  THE  METIDJA. 

A    S  I  ride,  as  I  ride,  with  a  full  lieart  for  my  guide, 
-'-^     So  its  tide  rocks  my  side,  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
That,  as  I  were  double-eyed.  He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 
Is  descried,  ways  untried  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  to  our  Chief  and  his  ,\llied, 

Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  pride  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied  —    Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride,  when  an  inner  voice  has  cried, 

The  sands  slide,  nor  abide  (as  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

O'er  each  visioncd  homicide  that  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied?) 

To  reside  —  where  he  died,  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 


898  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride,  ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  liorse  plied, 

Yet  his  hide,  strealied  and  pied,  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

Shows  where   sweat  has   sprung  and  dried.  —  Zebra-footed,  oatricl* 

thighed  — 
How  has  vied  stride  with  stride,  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride ! 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride,  could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

Ere  I  pried,  she  should  hide  (as  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

All  that 's  meant  me  —  satisfied  when  the  Prophet  and  the  Bride 

Stop  veins  I  'd  have  subside  as  I  ride,  as  I  ride ! 

Browning. 


GAITER  GRAY. 
«<  "I    I  O !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake,  Gaflfer  Gray? 
■'    *      And  why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue?"  — 
"  'T  is  the  weather  that 's  cold, 
'Tis  I'm  grown  very  old. 
And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new ;  Well-a-day ! " 

"  Then  line  tliy  warm  doublet  with  ale,  Gafl'er  Gray, 
And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass  !  " 

"  Nay,  but  credit  I  've  none. 

And  my  money 's  all  gone ; 
Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass?  —  "Well-a-day  I  * 

"  Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow.  Gaffer  Gray, 
And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door." 

"  Tlie  priest  often  preaches 

Against  worldly  riches, 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor,  —  Well-a-day ! " 

"The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill,  Gaffer  Gray; 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  In  front." 

"  lie  Avill  fasten  his  locks 

And  threaten  the  stocks. 
Should  lie  ever  more  find  mo  in  want;  — Well-a-day!   ' 

"  The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale,  Gaffer  Ghfty; 
And  tlie  season  will  welcome  you  there." 

'•  His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer 

And  his  merry  new  year. 
Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair,  —  Well-a-day  I " 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY   LEAVING   SCHOOL.  399 

"  My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess,  Gaffer  Gray; 
"What  then?  Avhile  it  lasts,  man,  we'll  live!" 

"  The  poor  man  alone. 

When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 

Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give,  —  Well-a-day  I " 

B»lcroft. 


BY  THE  SEA. 
"TT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 
-^     The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea : 
Listen !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 
Dear  cliild !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worship'st  at  tlie  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  tliee  when  we  know  it  not. 


Wordsworth. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  LEAVINa  THE  YORKSHIRE  SCHOOL. 
nnHE  poor  ci'eature,  Smike,  paid  bitterly  for  the  friendship 
-*-  of  Nicholas  Nickleby  ;  all  the  spleen  and  ill  humor  that 
could  not  be  vented  on  Nicholas  were  bestowed  on  him. 
Stripes  and  blows,  stripes  and  blows,  morning,  noon  and  night, 
were  his  penalty  for  being  compassionated  by  the  daring  new 
master.  Squeers  was  jealous  of  the  influence  which  the  said 
new  master  soon  acquired  in  the  school,  and  hated  him  for  it ; 
Mrs.  Squeers  had  hated  him  from  the  first ;  and  poor  Smike 
paid  heavily  for  all. 

One  night  he  was  poring  hard  over  a  book,  vainly  endeavor- 
ing to  master  some  task  which  a  child  of  nine  years  could  have 
conquered  with  ease,  but  which  to  the  brain  of  the  crushed  boy 


400  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

of  nineteen  was  a  hopeless  m3'stery.     Nicholas  laid  his  hand 
upon  bis  shoulder.     "  I  can't  do  it." 

"Do  not  try.  You  will  do  better,  poor  fellow,  when  I  am 
gone." 

"  Gone  ?     Are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say.  I  was  speaking  more  to  my  own  thoughts 
than  to  you.  I  shall  be  driven  to  that  at  last !  The  world  is 
before  me,  after  all." 

"  Is  the  world  as  bad  and  dismal  as  this  place?  " 

"Heaven  forbid.  Its  hardest,  coarsest  toil  is  happiness  to 
this." 

"  Should  I  ever  meet  you  there?  " 

"  Yes,"  — willing  to  soothe  him. 

"  No  !  no  !     Should  I  —  say  I  should  be  sure  to  find  you." 

"You  would,  and  I  would  help  and  aid  you,  and  not  bring 
fresh  sorrow  upon  you,  as  I  have  done  here." 

The  boy  caught  both  his  hands,  and  uttered  a  few  broken 
sounds  which  were  unintelligible.  Squeers  entered  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  he  shrunk  back  into  his  old  corner. 

Two  days  later,  the  cold  feeble  dawn  of  a  January  morning 
was  stealing  in  at  the  windows  of  the  common  sleeping-room. 

"  Now,  then,"  cried  Squeers,  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs, 
"  are  you  going  to  sleep  all  day  up  there  ? " 

"  We  shall  be  down  directly,  sir." 

"  Down  directly!  Ah!  you  had  better  be  down  directly,  or 
t  '11  be  down  upon  some  of  you  in  less  time  than  directly. 
Where's  that  Smike?" 

Nicholas  looked  round.     "  He  is  not  here,  sir." 

"  Don't  tell  me  a  lie.     He  is." 

Squeers  bounced  into  the  dormitory,  and  swinging  his  cane  in 
the  air  read}'  for  a  blow,  darted  into  the  corner  where  Smik« 
Usually  lay  at  night.  The  cane  descended  harmlessly.  There 
was  nobody  there. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?     Where  have  you  hid  him?  " 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  LEAVING   SCHOOL.  401 

**I  have  seen  nothing  of  him  since  last  night." 

"  Come,  you  won't  save  him  this  way.     AVhere  is  he?" 

"  At  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  pond,  for  any  tiling  I  know." 

In  a  fright,  Squeers  inquired  of  the  boys  whether  any  one  of 
them  knew  anything  of  their  missing  school-mate.  There  was  a 
general  hum  of  denial,  in  the  midst  of  which  one  shrill  voice 
was  heard  to  say  —  as  indeed  everybody  thought  — 

"  Please,  sir,  I  think  Smike'srun  away,  sir." 

"Ha!  who  said  that?" 

Squeers  made  a  plunge  into  the  crowd,  and  caught  a  very 
little  boy.     "  You  think  he  has  run  away,  do  you,  sir?" 

"Yes,  please,  sir." 

"  And  what  reason  have  you  to  suppose  that  any  boy  would 
run  away  from  this  establishment?     Eh?" 

The  child  raised  a  dismal  cry  by  way  of  answer,  and  Squeers 
beat  him  until  he  rolled  out  of  his  hands. 

"  There  !  Now  if  any  other  boy  thinks  Smike  has  run  away, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  talk  with  him."     Profound  silence. 

"  Well,  Nickleby,  you  think  he  has  run  away,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  think  it  extremely  likely." 

"  Maybe  you  know  he  has  run  away?" 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  He  did  n't  tell  you  he  was  going,  I  suppose?" 

"  He  did  not.  I  am  very  glad  he  did  not,  for  it  would  then 
have  been  my  duty  to  tell  you." 

"  Which  no  doubt  you  would  have  been  sorry  to  do?" 

"I  should,  indeed." 

Mrs.  Squeers  now  hastily  made  her  way  to  the  scene  of  action . 
"  What 's  all  this  here  to-do  ?  What  on  earth  are  you  talking 
to  him  for,  Squeery  ?  The  cow-house  and  stables  are  locked  up, 
so  Smike  can't  be  there  ;  and  he 's  not  down-stairs  anywhere. 
Now,  if  you  takes  the  chaise  and  goes  one  road,  and  I  borrows 
Swallow's  chaise  and  goes  t'  other,  one  or  other  of  us  is  moral 
sure  to  lay  hold  of  him." 


402  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  lady's  plan  was  put  in  execution  without  delay,  Nicholas 
remaining  behind  in  a  tumult  of  feeling.  Death,  from  want  and 
exposure,  was  the  best  tliat  could  be  expected  from  the  pro- 
longed wandering  of  so  helpless  a  creature.  Nicholas  lingered 
on,  in  restless  anxiety,  picturing  a  thousand  possibilities,  until 
the  evening  of  the  next  day,  when  Squeers  returned  alone. 

"  No  news  of  the  scamp  !  " 

Another  day  came,  and  Nicholas  was  scarcely  awake  when  he 
heard  the  wheels  of  a  chaise  approaching  the  house.  It  stopped, 
and  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Squeers  was  heard,  ordering  a  glass  of 
spirits  for  somebody,  which  was  in  itself  a  sufficient  sign  that 
something  extraordinary  had  happened.  Nicholas  hardly  dared 
look  out  of  the  window,  but  he  did  so,  and  the  first  object  that 
met  his  eyes  was  the  wretched  Smike,  bedabbled  with  mud  and 
rain,  haggard  and  worn  and  wild. 

"  Lift  him  out,"  suid  Squeers  "  Bring  him  in,  bring  him 
in." 

"  Take  care,"  cried  Mis.  Squeers.  "  We  tied  his  legs  under 
the  apron,  and  made  'em  fast  to  the  chaise,  to  prevent  him 
giving  us  the  slip  again." 

With  hands  trembling  with  delight,  Squeers  loosened  the 
cord  ;  .and  Smike,  more  dead  than  alive,  was  brought  in  and 
locked  up  in  a  cellar,  until  such  a  time  as  Squeers  sshould  deem  it 
expedient  to  operate  upon  him. 

The  news  that  the  fugitive  had  been  caught  and  brought  back 
ran  like  w  Idfire  through  the  hungry  community,  and  expectation 
was  on  tiptoe  all  the  morning.  In  the  afternoon,  Squeers,  hav- 
ing refreshed  himself  with  his  dinner  and  an  extra  libation  or  so, 
made  his  appearance,  accompanied  by  his  amiable  partner,  with 
a  fearful  instrument  of  flagellation,  strong,  supple,  wax-ended 
and  new. 

"  Is  every  boy  here?"     Evrv  boy  was  there. 

"  Each  boy  keep  his  place      Nicklcby  !  go  to  your  desk,  sir  " 

There  was  a  curious  expression   in  the  usher's  face  ;  but  he 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  LEAVING  SCHOOL.  403 

took  his  seat,  without  opening  his  lips  in  reply.  Squeers  left 
the  room,  and  shoi-tly  afterward  returned,  dragging  Smike  by 
the  collar  —  or  rather  by  that  fragment  of  his  jacket  which  was 
nearest  the  place  where  his  collar  ought  to  have  been. 

"  Now  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?  Stand  a  little 
out  of  the  way,  Mrs.  Squeers,  my  dear  ;  I  've  hardly  got  room 
enough." 

"  Spare  me,  sir!" 

"O,  that's  all  you've  got  to  say,  is  it?  Yes,  I'll  flog  you 
within  an  inch  of  your  life,  and  spare  you  that." 

One  cruel  blow  had  fallen  on  him,  when  Nicholas  Nickleby 
cried  "  Stop  I"     "  Who  cried  '  Stop  !  ' " 
"  I  did.     This  must  not  go  on." 
"  Must  not  go  on  !  " 

"No!  Must  not  I  Shall  not!  I  will  prevent  it !  You  have 
disregarded  all  my  quiet  interference  in  this  miserable  lad's  be- 
half;  you  have  returned  no  answer  to  the  letter  in  which  I 
begged  forgiveness  for  him,  and  offered  to  be  responsible  that 
he  would  lemain  quietly  here.  Don't  blame  me  for  this  public 
interference.  You  have  brought  it  upon  yourself,  not  I." 
"  Sit  down,  beggar  I  " 

"  "Wretch,  touch  him  again  at  your  peril !  I  will  not  stand  by 
and  see  it  done.  My  blood  is  up,  and  I  have  the  strength  of 
ten  such  men  as  you.  By  Heaven  !  I  will  not  spare  you,  if  you 
drive  me  on  !  I  have  a  series  of  personal  insults  to  avenge,  and 
my  indignation  is  aggravated  by  the  cruelties  practised  in  this 
cruel  den.  Have  a  care,  or  the  consequences  will  fall  heavily 
upon  your  head  I  " 

Squeers,  in  a  violent  outbreak,  spat  at  him,  and  struck  him  a 
blow  across  the  face.  Nicholas  instantly  sprung  upon  him, 
wrested  his  weapon  from  his  hand,  and,  pinning  him  by  the 
throat,  beat  the  ruffian  till  he  roared  for  mercy.  He  then  flunc 
him  away  with  all  the  force  he  could  muster,  and  the  violence 
of  his  fall  precipitated  Mrs.  Squeers  over  an  adjacent  fonn ; 


404  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Squeers,  striking  liis  head  against  the  same  form  in  his  descent, 
lay  at  his  full  length  on  the  ground,  stunned  and  motionless. 

Having  brought  affairs  to  this  happy  termination,  and  having 
ascertained  to  his  satisfaction  that  Squeers  was  only  stunned, 
and  not  dead,  —  upon  which  point  he  had  had  some  unpleasant 
doubts  at  first,  —  Nicholas  packed  up  a  few  clothes  in  a  small 
valise,  and  finding  that  nobody  offered  to  oppose  his  progress, 
marched  boldly  out  by  the  front  door,  and  struck  into  the  road. 
Then  such  a  cheer  arose  as  the  walls  of  Dotheboys  Hall  had 
never  echoed  before,  and  would  never  respond  to  again.  When 
the  sound  had  died  away,  the  school  was  empty ;  and  of  the 
crowd  of  boys  not  one  remained.  Dickens 


MEMORABILIA. 

AH,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new ! 

But  you  were  living  before  that. 

And  also  you  are  living  after , 
And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter ! 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  ccrtam  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt. 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  r"nnd  about: 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  I 

Well.  I  forget  the  rest.  Browning. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

AMONG  the  Ix'autifiil  pictures  that  hang  on  memory's  wall, ' 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest,  that  seemeth  the  best  of  all. 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden,  dark  with  the  mistletoe; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden  that  sprinkle  the  vale  below; 


ZENOBIA  TO  HER  CArXOR.  405 

Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies  that  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunshine,  and  stealing  its  golden  edge; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland,  where  the  briglit  red  benies  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip,  it  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother,  with  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep  : 
In  the  lap  of  that  dim  old  forest  he  lieth  in  peace  asleep. 
Light  as  the  down  of  a  thistle,  free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there,  the  beautiful  summers,  the  summers  of  long  ago; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary,  and  one  of  the  autumn  eves 
I  made  for  my  little  brother  a  bed  of  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  paldarms  folded  my  neck  In  a  warm  embrace. 

As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty  silently  covered  his  face ; 

And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset  lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright. 

He  fell  in  his  saint-like  beauty  asleep  by  the  Gates  of  Light. 

Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures  that  hang  on  memory's  wall, 

The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest  seemeth  the  best  of  all. 

Alice  Can/. 


ZENOBIA  TO  HER  CAPTOR. 
ri">HE  gods  preside  not  over  treachery.  And  it  must  have  been  by 
-*-  treason  among  those  in  wlumi  I  have  placed  my  most  familiar 
i;rust  that  I  am  now  where  and  what  I  am.  I  can  but  darkly  surmise  by 
whose  baseness  the  act  has  been  committed.  It  had  been  a  nobler 
triumph  to  you,  Roman,  and  a  lighter  fall  to  me,  had  the  field  of  battle 
decided  the  fate  of  my  kingdom,  and  led  me  a  prisoner  to  your  tent. 
Had  not  accursed  treason  given  me  up,  like  a  chained  slave,  to  your 
power,  yonder  walls  must  have  first  been  beaten  piecemeal  down  by 
your  engines  and  buried  me  beneath  their  ruins,  and  famine  clutched 
all  whom  the  sword  had  spared,  ere  we  had  OAvned  you  master.  What 
is  life  when  liberty  and  independence  are  gone? 

Was  not  that  a  woman's  war  that  drove  the  Goths  from  upper 
Asia?  AVas  not  that  a  woman's  war  that  hemmed  Sapor  in  his  capital, 
and  seized  his  camp?  and  that  which  beat  Heraclianus,  and  gained 
thereby  Syria  and  Mesopotamia?  and  that  which  worsted  Probus,  and 
so  won  the  crown  of  Egypt?  Does  it  ask  for  more,  to  be  beaten  by 
Romans,  than  to  conquer  these?  Rest  assured,  great  prince,  that  the 
war  was  mine.  My  people  were  indeed  with  me,  but  it  was  I  who 
roused,  lired,  and  led  them  on.     I  had  indeed  great  advisers.     Their 


406  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

names  are  known  througliout  the  world.  Why  should  I  name  the 
renowned  Longinus,  the  princely  Gracchus,  the  invincible  Zabdas,  the 
honest  Otho?  Their  names  are  honored  in  Rome  as  well  as  here. 
They  have  been  with  me ;  but  without  lying  or  vanity,  I  may  say  I 
have  been  their  head.  You  say  a  word  from  me  would  open  these 
gates ;  it  is  a  word  I  cannot  speak.  Wouldst  tlion  that  I  too  should 
turn  traitor?  Wan. 


THE  PATEIOT. 

An  Old  Story. 


TT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 


"With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad ! 


The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway. 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells. 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd  and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "  Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels  — 

But  give  me  your  sun  from  j^onder  skies !  " 
They  had  answered  "  And  afterward,  what  else?" 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep  I 

ITaught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone: 
And  you  sec  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now  — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles'  Gate  —  or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind ; 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  miadeeds. 


THE   LEAP   OF   ROUSHAN   BEG.  407 

Thus  I  eutered,  and  thus  I  }j;o  ! 

In  triumphs,  people  liave  dropped  down  dead. 
"  Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me?  "  —  God  niii^ht  question ;  now  instead, 

Tis  God  shall  repay  :  I  am  safer  so. 

Broiotiing. 


THE  LEAP  OF  EOUSHAN  BEG. 

MOUNTED  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet, 
His  chestnut  steed  with  four  white  feet, 
Eoushan  Beg,  called  Kurroglou, 
Son  of  the  road,  and  bandit  chief, 
Seeking  refuge  and  relief, 

Up  the  mountain  pathway  flew. 

Such  was  Kyrat's  wondrous  speed, 
Never  yet  could  any  steed 

Reach  the  dust-cloud  in  his  course. 
More  than  maiden,  more  than  wife, 
More  than  gold  and  next  to  life 

Roushan  the  Robber  loved  his  horse.  ^ 

In  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
Erzeroum  and  Trebizond, 

Garden-girt  his  fortress  stood; 
Plundered  khan,  or  caravan 
Journeying  north  from  Koordistan, 

Gave  him  wealth  and  wine  and  food. 

Seven  hundred  and  fourscore 
Men  at  arms  his  livery  wore. 

Did  bis  bidding  night  and  day. 
Now,  through  regions  all  unknown. 
He  was  wandering,  lost,  alone. 

Seeking  without  guide  his  way. 

Suddenly  the  pathway  ends, 
Sheer  the  precipice  descends, 

Loud  the  torrent  roars  unseen ; 
Thirty  feet  from  side  to  side 
Yawns  the  chasm;  on  air  must  ride 

He  who  crosses  this  ravine. 


408  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Following  close  in  his  pursuit, 
At  the  precipice's  foot, 

Reyhan  the  Arab  of  Orfah 
Halted  with  his  hundred  men, 
Shouting  upward  from  the  glen, 
\  "  La  lUah  ilia  AUah !  " 

\  Gently  Roushan  Beg  caressed 

\  Kyrat's  forehead,  neck,  and  breastj 

■\  Kissed  him  upon  both  his  ej-es; 

Sang  to  him  in  his  wild  way, 
J  As  upon  the  topmost  spray 

Vi  Sings  a  bird  before  it  flies. 

"  O  my  Kyrat,  O  my  steed, 
Round  and  slender  as  a  reed, 

Carry  me  this  peril  through! 
Satin  housings  shall  be  thine, 
Shoes  of  gold,  O  Kyrat  mine, 

O  thou  soul  of  Kurroglou ! 

.J      "  Soft  thy  skin  as  silken  skein, 
■     Soft  as  Avoman's  hair  thy  mane, 

Tender  are  thine  eyes  and  true  5 
All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine, 
Polished  bright;  O,  life  of  mine, 
Leap,  and  rescue  Kurroglou!  " 

Kyrat,  then,  the  strong  and  fleet, 
Drew  together  his  four  white  feet, 

Paused  a  moment  on  the  verge. 
Measured  with  his  eye  the  space, 
And  into  the  air's  embrace 

Leaped  as  leaps  the  ocean  surge^ 

As  the  ocean  surge  o'er  sand 
Bears  a  swimmer  safe  to  land, 

Kyr.'it  safe  his  rider  bore; 
Rattling  down  tlie  deep  abyss 
Fragments  of  tlie  precipice 
Rolli'd  like  pebbles  on  a  shore. 


THE   FERRY   OF   GALLAWAT.  409 

Roushan's  tasselled  cap  of  red 
Trembled  not  upon  his  head, 

Careless  sat  he  and  upright ; 
Neither  hand  nor  bridle  shook, 
Nor  his  head  he  turned  to  look, 

As  he  galloped  out  of  sight. 

Flash  of  harness  in  the  air, 
Seen  a  moment  like  the  glare 

Of  a  sword  drawn  from  its  sheath;  t 

Thus  the  phantom  horseman  passed. 
And  the  shadow  that  he  cast 

Leaped  the  cataract  underneath. 

Reyhan  the  Arab  held  his  breath 

While  this  vision  of  life  and  death 

Passed  above  him.     "  AUahu !  " 

Cried  he.     "  In  all  Koordistan 

Lives  there  not  so  brave  a  man 

As  this  Robber  Kurroglou !  " 

Longfellow. 


THE  FEREY  OF  GALLAWAY. 

TN  the  stormy  waters  of  Callaway 

-^     My  boat  had  been  idle  the  livelong  day. 

Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro, 

For  the  wind  was  high  and  the  tide  was  low. 

The  tide  was  low  and  the  wijid  was  high, 
And  we  were  heavy,  my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveller  all  the  day 
Had  crossed  the  ferry  of  Callaway. 

At  set  o'  th'  sun  the  clouds  outspread 
Like  wings  of  darkness  overhead, 
"When,  out  o'  th'  west,  my  eyes  took  heed 
Of  a  lady,  riding  at  full  speed. 

The  hoof-strokes  struck  on  the  flinty  hill 
Like  silver  ringing  on  silver,  till 
I  saw  the  veil  in  her  fair  hand  float, 
And  flutter  a  signal  for  my  boat. 


410  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

The  waves  ran  backward  as  if  'ware 
Of  a  presence  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  my  little  craft  leaned  down  and  lay 
With  her  side  to  th'  sands  o'  th'  Gallaway. 

"  Haste,  good  boatman !  haste  !  "  she  cried, 
"  And  row  me  over  the  other  side !  " 
And  she  stript  from  her  finger  the  shining  ring, 
And  gave  it  to  me  for  the  ferrying. 

"  Woe  's  me,  my  lady !  I  may  not  go, 
For  the  wind  is  high  and  th'  tide  is  low, 
And  rocks  like  dragons  lie  in  the  wave ;  — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  you  gave !  " 

•'  Nay,  nay !  for  the  rocks  wiU  be  melted  down. 
And  the  waters  they  never  will  let  me  drown, 
And  the  wind  a  pilot  will  prove  to  thee. 
For  my  dying  lover,  he  waits  for  me !  " 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  spur 
She  put  in  ray  hand,  but  I  answered  her: 
"  The  wind  is  high  and  the  tide  is  low; 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  and  will  not  go ! " 

Her  face  grew  deadly  white  with  pain. 
And  she  took  her  champing  steed  by  th'  mane, 
And  bent  his  neck  to  th'  ribbon  and  spur 
That  lay  in  my  hand,  —  but  I  answered  her : 

"  Though  you  should  proffer  me  twice  and  thrice 
Of  ring  and  ribbon  and  steed  the  price,  — 
The  leave  of  kissing  your  lily-like  hand,  — 
I  never  could  row  you  safe  to  th'  land." 

"  Then  God  have  mercy ! "  she  faintly  cried, 
"For  my  lover  is  dying  the  other  side. 
O  cruel,  O  cruclest  Gallaway, 
Be  parted,  and  make  me  a  path,  I  pray!  " 

Of  a  sudden  the  sun  shone  large  and  bright, 
As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night, 


ODE  ON  THE  POETS.  411 

And  the  rain  on  the  river  fell  as  sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's  feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge  to  edge, 
A  rainbow  stretched  like  a  golden  bridge ; 
And  I  put  the  rein  in  her  hand  so  fair, 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle,  th'  queen  o'  th'  air. 

And  over  the  river,  from  edge  to  edge, 

She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shimmering  bridge, 

And  landing  safe  on  the  farther  side, — 

"  Love  is  tliy  conqueror,  Death ! "  she  cried- 

AHce  Cary. 


ODE  ON  THE  POETS. 

BARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth* 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous. 
And  the  parle  of  voices  tliund'rous ; 
With  tlie  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease, 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneath  large  bluebells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  tlie  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 
But  divine  melodious  truth ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth; 
Talcs  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 


412 


CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

And  the  sonls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumbered,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-bom  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wi.sdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  I 


ZALLUNDBORG  CHUROH. 
««  "OUILD  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 

J-^     A  church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 
And  there  shalt  thou  wed  my  daughter  fair," 
Said  the  Lord  of  Nesvek  to  Esbern  Snare. 

And  the  Baron  laughed.    But  Esbern  said, 
"  Though  I  lose  my  soul,  I  will  Hclva  wedl  •* 
And  oflf  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will, 
To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

"  Build,  0  Troll,  a  church  for  me 
At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea; 
Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair, 
Build  it  quickly,"  said  Esbern  Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,  "  No  work  is  wrought 
By  Trolls  of  the  Hills,  O  man,  for  naught. 
What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so  fair?" 
"  Set  thy  own  price,"  quoth  Esbern  Snare. 

•«  When  Kallundborg  church  is  builded  well. 
Thou  mnst  the  name  of  its  builder  tell, 


Keats, 


KALLUXDBOKG   CHURCH.  41J 

Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be  my  boon." 
•'  Build,"  said  Esbern,  "  and  build  it  soon." 

By  night  and  by  day  the  Troll  wrought  oaj 
He  hewed  the  timbers,  he  piled  the  stone; 
But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  fair, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern  Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched  by  day, 
He  souglit  and  thought,  but  he  dai-cd  not  prOf ; 
In  vain  he  called  on  the  EUe-maids  shy, 
And  the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave  no  reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 
A  rumor  ran  through  the  country-side ; 
And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young  and  fair, 
Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh  done; 
One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone ; 
And  the  grim  Troll  muttered,  "Fool  thou  art'. 
To-morrow  gives  me  thy  eyes  and  heart ! " 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair, 
Through  wood  and  meadow,  walked  Esbern  Snare, 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong  man  sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At  his  last  day's  work  he  heard  the  Troll 
Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's  hole ; 
Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and  fair : 
♦'  I  have  builded  my  tomb,"  said  Esbern  Snaro. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide. 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his  side : 
"  O  Esbern  Snare !  "  a  sweet  voice  said, 
*'  Would  I  might  die  now  in  thy  stead  I " 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made  .strooK, 
He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long ; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird  af eared, 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-rod  board. 


414  CLASSIC  SELECTIONS. 

"  O  love ! "  he  cried,  "  let  me  look  to-day 
In  thine  eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked  away ; 
Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  me  feel  thy  heart 
Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart ! 

"  I  sinned,  O  Helva,  for  love  of  thee! 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  me ! " 
But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster  still, 
Hammered  the  Troll  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a  loving  heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art; 

For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 

Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's  souL 

And  Esbern  listened,  and  caught  the  sound 
Of  a  Troll-wife  singing  underground  : 
"  To-morrow  comes  Fine,  fatlier  thine: 
Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine ! 

"Lie  still,  my  darling!  next  sunrise 
Thou  'It  play  witli  Esbern  Snare's  heart  and  eyes ! ' 
"Hoi  ho!"  quoth  Esbern,  "is  that  your  game? 
Thanks  to  the  Troll-wife,  I  know  his  name ! " 

The  Troll  he  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 
To  Kallundborg  churcli  witli  tlie  lacking  stone. 
"  Too  late,  Gafler  Fine !  "  cried  Esbern  Snare ; 
And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in  air ! 

That  night  the  harvesters  heard  the  sound 
Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground, 
And  tlie  voice  of  the  IIiIl-TroU  loud  with  blame 
Of  the  careless  singer  who  told  his  name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing  the  rune 
By  the  Northern  Sea  in  the  harvest  moon ; 
And  the  flsliers  of  Zealand  hear  him  still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
BtlU  looks  the  tower  of  Kallundbcrg  church, 
"Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded  pair. 
Stood  Ilelva  of  Ncsvck  and  Esbc/:n  Snare ! 


WhitUtr. 


ODE   TO   MY   INFANT   SON.  415 

THE  SPIEIT  OF  NATUEE. 

T  IFE  of  Life !    Thy  lips  enliinclle 

-*-^     Witli  their  love  the  breath  between  them; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  flre ;  tlien  screen  tliera 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !     Thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  veil  which  seems  to  hide  them, 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  thin  clouds,  ere  tliey  divide  them. 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  whereso'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others :  none  beholds  Thee ; 

But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 
Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor; 
And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never,  — 
As  I  feel  now,  lost  forever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth !  where'er  thou  movest 

Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  wltli  brightness. 
And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 

"Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing ! 

Shelley. 


ODE  TO  MY  DJFANT  SON. 

rpHOU  happy,  happy  elf ! 
-'-      (But  stop  —  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear,) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
(My  love,  he  's  poking  peas  into  his  ear!) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite ! 

With  spirits  feather  light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin 
(Dear  me !  the  caild  is  swallowing  a  pin  1) 


416  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Thou  little,  tricksy  duck! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 
(The  door !  the  door !  he  '11  tumble  down  the  stair  I) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he  '11  set  his  pinafore  afire  1) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents !  —  (Drat  the  boyl 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub  —  but  of  earth ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  fays  by  moonlight  pale. 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  his  tail !) 
Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  tliat  blows, 
Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble  —  that 's  his  precious  nose !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope ! 
(He  '11  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's  mint  • 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove ! 
(He  '11  have  that  jug  off,  with  anotlier  shove !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 
(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He  '11  climb  upon  the  table  —  that 's  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He 's  got  a  knife  I) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  stoi-ms,  no  clouds,  in  tliy  blue  sky  foreseeing. 

Play  on,  play  on. 

My  elfln  John ! 

Toss  the  light  l)ull  —  bestride  the  stick, 

(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  liim  sick!) 


THE   LOST   LEADER. 


417 


With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He 's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nosel) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 
(I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write,  unless  he 's  sent  above !) 


Hood, 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us. 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat,— 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others,  she  lets  us  devote ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  1 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Bums,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  —they  watch  from  their  gravesi 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 


We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire ; 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod. 


418  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

One  more  devil's-triumph  aud  sorrow  for  angeis, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  Gc^ ' 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  bacK  xo  us  i 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part  —  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him  —  strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us. 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne ! 


Broioning. 


AUX  ITALIENS. 

AT  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there, 
And  she  looked  like  a  queen  in  a  book,  that  night, 
With  the  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  raven  hair, 
And  the  brooch  on  her  breast,  so  bright. 
Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 

The  best,  to  my  tas-te,  is  the  Trovatore; 
And  Mario  can  soothe  with  a  tenor  note 
The  souls  in  purgatory. 

The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as  snow; 

And  who  was  not  thrilled  in  the  strangest  way, 
As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gas  burned  lc«. 

"  Non  ti  scordar  di  me  "  ? 
The  Emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 

Looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then  seen 
The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city  gate. 

Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  beeij. 

The  Empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye  i 

You  'd  have  said  that  her  fancy  had  gone  back  again. 
For  one  moment,  under  the  old  blue  sky. 

To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 
Well !  there  in  our  front-row  box  we  sat 

Together,  my  l)ride-betrotlied  and  I ; 
My  gaze  was  fixed  on  my  opera  hat, 

And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 


AUX  ITALIENS.  419 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were  sad. 

Like  a  queen,  she  leaned  on  her  full  white  arm, 
With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had ; 

So  confident  of  her  charm ! 
I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 

Of  her  fonner  lord,  good  soul  that  he  was! 
Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of  men, 

The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 

Through  a  needle's  ej-e  he  had  not  to  pass ; 
I  wish  him  well  for  the  jointure  given 

To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 
Meanwhile  I  was  thinking  of  my  first  love, 

As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught  for  years, 
Till  over  my  eyes  there  began  to  move 

Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore  last  time. 

When  we  stood,  'neath  the  cypress-trees,  together, 
In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime. 

In  the  crimson  evening  weather; 
Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was  hot), 

And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden  chain, 
And  her  full,  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a  knot. 

And  falling  loose  again ; 

And  the  jasmin-flower  in  her  fair  young  breast ; 

Oh,  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that  jasmin-flower! 
And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his  nest. 

And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 
I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife. 

And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back  my  ring. 
And  it  all  seemed  then,  in  the  waste  of  life, 

Such  a  very  little  thing ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill 

Which  the  sentinel  cypress-tree  stands  over. 
And  I  thought  ..."  were  she  only  living  still, 

How  I  could  forgive  her  and  love  her ! " 
And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus,  in  tliat  hour, 

And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things  were  best. 


420  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmin-flower, 
Which  she  used  to  Avear  in  her  breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet. 

It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me  cold ! 
Like  the  scent  that  steals  from  the  crumbling  sheet 

When  a  mummy  is  half  unrolled. 
And  I  turned  and  looked.     She  was  sitting  there 

In  a  dim  bos,  over  the  stage ;  and  drest 
In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full  soft  hair, 

And  that  jasmin  in  her  breast ! 

I  was  here,  and  she  was  there. 

And  the  glittering  horseshoe  curved  between— 
From  my  bride-betrothed,  with  her  raven  hair, 

And  her  sumptuous,  scornful  mien. 
To  my  early  love,  with  her  eyes  down  cast. 

And  over  her  primrose  face  the  shade 
(In  short,  from  the  Future  back  to  the  Past), 

There  was  but  one  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 

One  moment  I  looked.     Then  I  stole  to  the  door, 
I  traversed  the  passage ;  and  down  at  her  side 

I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 
My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's  strain. 

Or  something  which  never  will  be  exprest. 
Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave  again 

With  the  jasmin  in  her  breast. 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed ! 

But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved  me  then! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet  lips  said, 

My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 
The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 

Slie  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  handsome  still, 
And  but  for  her  .  .  .  well,  we  '11  let  that  pass  — 

She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love. 

With  her  primrose  face ;  for  old  things  are  best, 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize  it  above 

The  brooch  in  ray  lady's  breast. 


CLOSE   OF   THE   ORATION  ON  THE   CROWN.  421 

The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and  siu, 

And  Love  must  cling  where  it  can,  I  say; 
For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win, 

But  one  is  n't  loved  every  day. 

And  I  think  In  the  lives  of  most  women  and  men, 

There 's  a  moment  when  all  would  go  smooth  and  even, 
If  only  the  dead  could  And  out  when 

To  come  back  and  be  forgiven. 
But  oh,  the  smell  of  that  jasmin  flower  I 

And  oh,  that  music !  and  oh,  the  way 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon  tower 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me, 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me  !  Bulwer-Lytton.. 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

C10ME  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love,  and  we  will  all  the  pleasures 
^  prove  that  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field,  and  all  the  craggy 
mountains  yield.  There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  see  the  shep- 
herds feed  their  flocks,  by  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls  melodious 
birds  sing  madrigals.  There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses  and  a 
thousand  fragrant  posies,  a  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle  embroider'd  all 
with  leaves  of  myrtle.  A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool,  which  from 
our  pretty  lambs  we  pull,  fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold,  with  buckles 
of  the  purest  gold.  A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds  with  coral  clasps 
and  amber  studs :  and  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move,  come  live 
with  me  and  be  my  Love.  Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat  as  precious 
as  the  gods  do  eat,  shall  on  an  ivory  table  be  prepared  each  day  for 
thee  and  me.  The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing  for  thy  delight 
each  May-morning :  if  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move,  then  live 
with  me  and  be  my  Love.  Marlowe, 


CLOSE  OF  THE  OKATION  ON  THE  CEOWN. 
r  I  iHE  people  gave  their  voice,  and  the  danger  that  hung  upon  our 
-*-  borders  went  by  like  a  cloud.  Then  was  the  time  for  the  upright 
citizen  to  show  the  world  if  he  could  suggest  anything  better :  —  now, 
his  cavils  come  too  late.  The  statesman  and  the  adventurer  are  alike 
in  nothing,  but  there  Is  nothmg  in  which  they  difier  more  than  this. 
The  statesmaii  'declares  his  mind  before  the  event,  and  submits  himself 


422  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

to  be  tested  by  those  who  have  believed  him,  by  fortune,  by  his  owe 
use  of  opportunities,  by  every  one  and  everything.  The  adventurer  is 
silent  when  he  ought  to  have  spoken,  and  then,  if  there  is  a  disagree, 
able  result,  he  fixes  an  eye  of  malice  upon  that.  As  I  have  said,  thei 
was  the  oppoi'tuuity  of  the  man  who  cared  for  Athens  and  for  th« 
assertion  of  justice. 

But  I  am  prepared  to  go  further:  —  If  any  one  has  had  a  new  light 
as  to  something  which  it  would  have  been  expedient  to  do  then,  I  pro- 
test that  this  ought  not  to  be  concealed  from  me.  But  if  there  neithei 
is  nor  was  any  such  thing,  if  no  one  to  this  very  hour  is  in  a  position 
to  name  it;  then  what  was  your  adviser  to  do?  Was  he  not  to  choose 
the  best  of  the  visible  and  feasible  alternatives?  And  this  is  what  I 
did,  J2schines,  when  the  herald  asked,  "Who  wishes  to  speak?"  His 
question  was  not,  Who  wishes  to  rake  up  old  accusations?  or,  Who 
wishes  to  give  pledges  of  the  future?  In  those  days  you  sat  dumb  in 
the  assemblies.     I  came  forward  and  spoke. 

Come  now  —  it  is  better  late  than  never :  point  out  what  argument 
should  have  been  discovered  —  what  opportunity  that  might  have 
served  has  not  been  used  by  me  in  the  interests  of  Athens  —  what  alli- 
ance, what  policy  was  available  which  I  might  better  have  commended 
to  our  citizens? 

As,  however,  he  bears  so  hardly  upon  the  results,  I  am  ready  to 
make  a  statement  which  may  sound  startling.  I  say  that,  if  the  event 
had  been  manifest  to  the  whole  world  beforehand,  if  all  men  had  been 
fully  aware  of  it,  if  you,  j^schines,  who  never  opened  your  lip8,  had 
been  ever  so  loud  or  so  shrill  in  prophecy  or  in  protest,  not  •even  then 
ought  Athens  to  have  forsaken  this  course,  if  Athens  had  any  regard 
for  her  glory,  or  for  her  past,  or  for  the  ages  to  come.  Now,  of  course, 
she  seems  to  have  failed;  but  failure  is  for  all  men  when  Heaven  so 
decrees.  In  the  other  case,  she,  who  claims  the  first  place  in  Greece, 
would  have  renounced  it,  and  would  have  incurred  the  reproach  of 
having  betrayed  all  Greece  to  Philip.  If  she  had  indeed  betrayed  with- 
out a  blow  those  things  for  which  our  ancestors  endured  every  Imigi- 
nable  danger,  who  would  not  have  spurned,  iEschines,  at  you?  Not  at 
Athens — the  gods  forbid  —  nor  at  me.  In  the  name  of  Zeus,  how 
could  we  have  looked  visitors  in  the  face  if,  things  having  come  to 
their  present  pass,  Pliilip  having  been  elected  leader  and  lord  of  all  — 
the  struggle  against  it  had  been  sustained  by  others  without  our  help, 
and  this,  though  never  once  in  her  past  history  our-  city  had  preferred 


CLOSE   OF   THE   ORATION   ON  THE   CROWN.  428 

Inglorious  safety  to  the  perilous  vindication  of  honor?  What  Greek, 
what  barbarian  docs  not  know  that  tlie  Thebans,  and  their  predecessors 
in  power,  the  Lacedaemonians,  and  the  Persian  kuig,  would  have  been 
glad  and  thankful  to  let  Athens  take  anything  that  she  liked,  besides 
keeping  what  she  had  got,  if  she  would  only  have  done  what  she  was 
told,  and  allowed  some  other  power  to  lead  Greece? 

Such  a  bargain,  however,  was  for  the  Athenians  of  those  days 
neither  conditional  or  congenial  nor  supportable.  In  the  whole  course 
of  her  annals,  no  one  could  ever  persuade  Athens  to  side  with  dishon- 
est strength,  to  accept  a  secure  slavery,  or  to  desist,  at  any  moment 
in  her  career,  and  from  doing  battle  and  braving  danger  for  pre-emi- 
nence, for  honor,  and  for  renown. 

You,  Athenians,  find  these  principles  so  worthy  of  veneration,  so 
accordant  with  your  own  character,  that  you  praise  none  of  your  an- 
cestors so  highly  as  those  who  put  them  into  action.  You  are  right. 
Who  must  not  admire  the  spirit  of  men  who  were  content  to  quit  their 
country,  and  to  exchange  their  city  for  their  triremes  in  the  cause  of 
resistance  to  dictation;  who  put  Themistocles,  the  author  of  his 
course,  at  their  head,  while  as  for  Kyrsilos,  the  man  who  gave  his 
voice  for  accepting  the  enemy's  terras,  they  stoned  him  to  death,  yes, 
and  his  wife  was  stoued  by  the  women  of  Athens?  The  Athenians  of 
those  days  were  not  in  search  of  an  orator  or  a  general  who  should 
help  them  to  an  agreeable  servitude.  No,  they  would  not  hear  of  life 
itself  if  they  were  not  to  live  free.  Each  one  of  them  held  that  he 
had  been  bom  the  son,  not  only  of  his  father  and  his  mother,  but  of 
his  country  also.  And  wherein  is  the  diflerence?  It  is  here.  He  that 
recognizes  no  debt  of  piety  save  to  his  parents  awaits  his  death  in  the 
course  of  destiny  and  of  nature.  But  he  that  deems  himself  the  son  of 
his  country  also  will  be  ready  to  die  sooner  than  see  her  enslaved, 
fii  his  estimate  those  insults,  those  dishonors  which  must  be  suffered 
in  his  city  wnen  sne  has  lost  her  freedom  will  be  accounted  more  terri- 
ble than  deatG. 

If  I  presumea  to  say  that  it  was  I  who  thus  inspired  you  with  a 
spirit  worthy  ol  your  ancestors,  there  is  not  a  man  present  who  might 
not  properly  rebUKe  me.  What  I  do  maintain  is  that  these  principles 
of  conduct  were  your  own ;  that  this  spirit  existed  in  *he  city  before 
my  intervention,  but  that,  in  the  successive  chapters  of  events,  I  had 
my  share  of  mem  as  your  servant,  ^schines,  on  the  contrary,  de- 
nounces our  policy  as  a  whole,  invokes  your  resentment  against  me  as 


424  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

^he  author  of  the  city's  terrors  and  dangers,  and,  in  his  anxiety  tc 
wrest  from  me  the  distinction  of  the  hour,  robs  you  of  glories  which 
will  be  celebrated  as  long  as  time  endures.  Eor,  if  you  condemn  Ktesi- 
phon  on  the  ground  that  my  public  course  was  misdirected,  then  you 
will  be  adjudged  guilty  of  error :  you  will  no  longer  appear  as  suffer- 
ers by  the  perversity  of  fortune. 

But  never,  Athenians,  never  can  it  be  said  that  you  erred  when  you 
took  upon  you  that  peril  for  the  freedom  and  the  safety  of  all.  No, 
by  our  fathers  who  met  the  danger  at  Marathon ;  no,  by  our  fathers 
who  stood  in  the  ranks  at  Platgea;  no,  by  our  fathers  who  did  battle 
on  the  waters  of  Salamis  and  Artemision;  no,  by  all  the  brave  who 
sleep  in  tombs  at  which  their  country  paid  those  last  honors  which  she 
had  awarded,  ^schines,  to  all  of  them  alike,  not  alone  to  the  success- 
ful or  the  victorious !  And  her  award  was  just.  The  part  of  brave 
men  had  been  done  by  all.  The  fortune  experienced  by  the  individual 
among  them  had  been  allotted  by  a  power  above  man. 

Here  is  the  proof.  Not  wlien  my  extradition  was  demanded,  not 
when  they  sought  to  arraign  me  before  the  Amphictyonic  Council,  not 
for  all  their  menaces  or  their  offers,  not  when  they  set  these  villains 
like  wild  beasts  upon  me,  have  I  ever  been  untrue  to  the  loyalty  I  bear 
you.  From  the  outset,  I  chose  the  path  of  a  straight-forward  and 
righteous  statesmanship,  to  cherish  the  dignities,  the  prerogatives,  the 
glories  of  my  country :  to  exalt  them  :  to  stand  by  their  cause.  I  do 
not  go  about  the  market-place  radiant  with  joy  at  my  country's  disas- 
ters, holding  out  my  hand  and  telling  my  good  news  to  any  one  who,  I 
think,  is  likely  to  report  it  in  Macedon ;  I  do  not  hear  of  my  country's 
successes  with  a  shudder  and  a  groan  and  a  head  bent  to  earth,  like  the 
bad  men  who  pull  Athens  to  pieces,  as  if,  in  so  doing,  they  were  not 
tearing  their  own  reputations  to  shreds,  who  turn  their  faces  to  for- 
eign lands,  and,  when  an  alien  has  triumphed  by  the  ruin  of  the 
Greeks,  give  their  praises  to  tliat  exploit,  and  vow  that  vigilance  must 
be  used  to  render  that  triumph  eternal. 

Never,  powers  of  Heaven,  may  any  brow  of  the  Iraraortaid  be  bent 
in  approval  of  that  prayer.  Rather,  if  it  may  be,  breathe  even  into 
these  men  abetter  mind  and  heart;  but  if  so  it  is  that  to  these  can 
come  no  healing,  then  grant  that  these,  and  these  alone,  may  perish 
utterly  and  early  on  land  and  on  the  deep  :  and  to  us,  tlie  remnant,  send 
the  swiftest  deliverance  from  the  terrors  gathered  above  our  heads, 
send  us  the  salvation  that  stands  fast  perpetually. 
From  TranHlaUon  in  Jebb's  Attic  Orators.  Demosthenes 


THE  HOUSE   BEAUTIFUL.  435 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste ; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  gi-ievances  foregone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  fore-benioanfed  moan. 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before  : 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 

All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

Sftakcspeare, 


THE  HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL. 

A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor, 
A  shivering  pool  before  th-e  door, 
A  garden  bare  of  flowers  and  fruit, 
And  poplars  at  the  garden  foot,  — 
Such  is  the  place  that  I  live  in. 
Bleak  vxithout  and  bare  within. 

Yet  shall  your  ragged  moor  receive 
The  incomparable  pomp  of  eve, 
And  the  cold  glories  of  the  dawn 
Behind  your  shivering  trees  be  drawn  ; 
And  when  the  wind  from  place  to  place 
Doth  the  unmoored  cloud-galleons  chase, 
Your  garden  gloom  and  gleam  again, 
With  leaping  sun,  with  dancing  rain. 
Here  shall  the  wizard  moon  ascend 
The  heavens,  in  the  crimson  end 
Of  day's  declining  splendor  ;  here 
The  array  of  the  stai's  a[)pear. 
The  neighbor  hollows  dry  or  wet. 
Spring  shall  with  tender  flowers  beset  { 
And  oft  the  morning  muser  see 
Larks  rising  from  the  broomy  lea. 
And  every  fairy  wheel  and  thread 
Of  cobweb  dew-bediamondM. 
When  daisies  go,  shall  winter  time 


426  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Silver  the  simple  grass  with  rime, 

Autumnal  frosts  enchant  the  pool 

And  make  the  cart-ruts  beautiful. 

And  when  snow -bright  the  moor  expands, 

How  shall  your  children  clap  their  hands  ! 

To  make  this  earth,  our  hermitage, 

A  cheerful  and  a  pleasant  page, 

God's  bright  and  intricate  device 

Of  days  and  seasons  doth  suffice. 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings. 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare  ; 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl,  — 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Whore  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell. 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  I 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil  ! 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new. 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through. 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Tlianks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  borne 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  honi  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  ?  voice  that  sings  : 


THK    VOICES.  427 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  loU  ! 

Leave  tliy  low-vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  ! 

O.  W.  Holmes 

THE  VOICES. 

Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye  my  people,  saith  your  God. 

Speak  ye  home  to  the  heart  of  Jerusalem  and  call  unto  her. 

That  her  affliction  is  ended,  that  her  debt  is  paid  ; 

That  she  hath  received  from  the  hand  of  Jehovah  double  for  all  her  sins. 

Hark,  one  calling : 

*'  In  the  wilderness  prepare  ye  a  way  for  Jehovah  ! 

Make  straight  in  the  desert  a  highway  for  our  God  ! 

Let  every  valley  be  exalted. 

And  every  mountain  and  hill  be  made  low  ; 

And  let  the  rugged  be  made  a  plain,  • 

And  the  ledges  of  rocks  a  valley, 

And  the  glory  of  Jehovah  be  revealed, 

And  all  flesh  shall  see  it  together  ; 

For  the  mouth  of  Jehovah  hath  spoken  it." 

Hark  !  one  saying,  "Cry!" 
And  I  said : 

"What  can  I  cry  ? 
All  flesh  is  grass. 

And  all  its  beauty  as  a  wild-flower. 
Grass  is  withered,  flower  faded  : 
For  the  breath  of  Jehovah  hath  blown  upon  it. 
Surely  grass  is  the  people." 

"  Grass  withereth,  flower  fadeth  : 

Yet  the  word  of  our  God  will  stand  forever.** 

Up  on  a  high  mountain,  get  thee  up, 

0  Evangolistess  Zion  ! 

Lift  up  thy  voice  with  strength, 

Evangelistess  Jerusalem  ! 

Lift  up,  be  not  afraid,  say  to  the  cities  of  Judah  j 

Behold  your  God. 

Behold  the  Lord,  Jehovah  :  as  a  mighty  one  will  he  come, 


428  CLASSIC   SELECTION*. 

His  arm  ruling  for  Him  ; 
Behold,  His  reward  is  with  Him, 
And  His  recompence  before  Him. 
He  will  feed  His  flock  like  a  shepherd. 
Gather  the  lambs  with  His  right  arm 
And  carry  them  in  His  bosom, 
And  tenderly  lead  the  ewe-mothers. 

Who  hath  measured  the  waters  with  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  and  reg- 
ulated the  heavens  with  a  span,  and  taken  up  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  a 
tHrd  measure,  and  weighed  the  mountains  with  scales,  and  the  hills  in  a 
balance  ?  Who  hath  directed  the  spirit  of  Jehovah,  and  instructed  Him 
as  His  counsellor  1  With  whom  took  He  counsel,  and  who  would  have 
explained  to  Him  and  instructed  Him  in  the  path  of  judgment,  and 
taught  Him  knowledge,  and  helped  Him  to  know  the  way  of  intelli- 
gence ?  Behold,  nations !  as  a  drop  from  a  bucket,  and  like  a  grain  of 
sand  in  a  balance,  are  they  esteemed  ;  behold,  islands !  like  an  atom  of 
dust  that  rises  in  the  air.  And  Lebanon  is  not  enough  for  burning,  nor 
its  game  enough  for  an  offering.  All  the  nations  are  as  nothing  before 
Him  ;  as  spent  and  as  waste  are  they  regarded  for  Him. 

To  whom  then  can  ye  liken  God,  and  what  kind  of  image  can  ye 
place  beside  Him  ? 

The  image  !  A  smith  cast  it,  a  smelter  plates  it  with  gold,  and  smelts 
for  it  silver  chains.  He  that  is  straitened  for  an  offering,  —  he  chooses 
ft  block  of  wood  that  will  not  rot  ;  he  seeketh  for  himself  a  skilful  carver 
to  set  up  an  image  that  will  not  totter. 

Have  ye  not  known  1  Have  ye  not  heard  1  Hath  it  not  been  told 
you  from  tlie  beginning?  Have  ye  not  understood  from  the  foundations 
of  the  earth?  He  who  is  enthroned  above  the  vault  of  the  earth,  and 
its  dwellers  are  before  him  as  grasshoppers ;  who  stretcheth  the  heavens 
as  a  fine  veil,  and  spreadeth  them  like  a  dwelling  tent.  He  who  bring- 
eth  great  men  to  nothing,  maketh  judges  of  the  earth  like  a  desolation. 
They  are  liardly  planted,  hardly  sown,  their  stem  has  hardly  taken  I'oot 
in  the  earth,  and  he  only  blows  upon  them,  and  they  dry  up,  and  the 
storm  carries  them  away  like  stubble.  "  To  whom  then  will  ye  liken 
me  that  I  may  match  with  him?"  saith  the  Holy  One. 

Lift  up  your  eyes  on  high,  and  see !  Who  hath  created  these  ?  It  is 
He  who  bringeth  out  their  host  by  number,  calleth  them  all  by  names, 
by  the  greatness  of  His  might,  for  He  is  powerful  in  strength  :  there  is 
not  one  that  is  missing.  Why  sayest  thou  then,  0  Jacob,  and  speakest, 
O  Israel,  "  My  way  is  hidden  from  Jehovah,  and  my  right  is  overlooked 
by  my  God"? 


LADY   MACBETH.  429 

Hast  thou  not  known,  hast  thou  not  heard,  that  an  everlasting 
God  is  Jehovah,  Creator  of  the  ends  of  the  earth  ?  He  fainteth  not, 
neither  becomes  weary.  His  understanding  is  unsearchable.  Giver  to 
the  weary  of  strength  !  And  upon  him  that  is  of  no  might  He  lavisheth 
power.  Even  youths  may  grow  faint  and  weary,  and  young  men  utterly 
fall;  but  they  who  hope  in  Jehovah  shall  renew  their  strength;  they 
shall  mount  up  with  wings  as  eagles  ;  they  shall  run,  and  not  be  weary  ; 
they  shall  walk,  and  not  faint.  jiaiahxl. 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 

Lbt  's  contend  uo  more.  Love,  strive  nor  weep : 

All  be  as  before,  Love,  —  only  sleep  ! 

What  so  wild  as  words  are  ?    I  and  thou 

In  debate,  as  birds  are,  —  hawk  on  bough  ! 

See  the  creature  stalking  while  we  speak  ! 

Hush  and  hide  the  talking,  cheek  on  cheek  I 

What  so  false  as  truth  is,  false  to  thee  ? 

Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is,  shun  the  tree  — 

Where  the  apple  reddens,  never  pry  — 

Lest  we  lose  our  Edens,  Eve  and  L 

Be  a  god,  and  hold  me  with  a  charm  ! 

Be  a  man,  and  fold  me  with  thine  arm  ! 

Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love  !  As  I  ought 

I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love,  think  thy  thought  — 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it,  both  demands, 

Laying  flesh  and  spirit  in  thy  hands. 

That  shall  be  to-morrow,  not  to-night : 

I  must  bury  sorrow  out  of  sight,  — 

Must  a  little  weep,  Love,  (Foolish  me  !), 

And  so  fall  asleep.  Love,  loved  by  thee. 

Brffwning. 


LAST  APPEARANCE  OF  LADY  MACBETH. 

Doctor.  I  HAVE  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but  can  perceive  no  truth 
in  your  report.     When  was  it  she  last  walked  ? 

Gentleivomnn.  Since  his  Majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have  seen  her  rise 
from  her  bed,  throw  her  night-gown  upon  her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth 
paper,  fold  it,  write  upon  it,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return  to 
bed  ;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doc.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature  !  to  receive  at  once  the  benefit  of 
sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of  watching.  In  this  slumbevy  agitation,  besides  her 
walking,  and  other  actual  performances,  what,  at  any  time,  have  you  heard 
her  My ! 


430  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Gen.    That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

Doc,     You  may,  to  me  ;  and  't  is  most  meet  you  should. 

Gtn.  Neither  to  you,  nor  any  one,  —  having  no  witness  to  confirm  my 
speech.  \Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  taper."]  Lo  you,  here  she  comes  !  This 
is  her  very  guise ;  and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.     Observe  her  ;  stand  close. 

Doc.     How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gen.  Why,  it  stood  by  her :  she  has  light  by  her  continually  ;  't  is  her 
command. 

Doc.     You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gen.     Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doc.     What  is  it  she  does  now  ?    Look,  how  she  rubs  her  hands. 

Gen.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to  seem  thus  washing  her 
hands  :  I  have  known  her  continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Lady  Macbeth.     Yet,  here  's  a  spot. 

Doc.  Hark  !  she  speaks  :  I  will  set  down  what  comes  from  her,  to  satisfy 
my  remembrance  the  more  strongly. 

L.  Macb.  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say  !  —  One  ;  two  :  why,  then  't  is 
time  to  do  't.  —  Hell  is  murky  !  —  Fie,  my  lord,  fie  !  a  soldier,  and  afeard  ? 
What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can  call  our  power  to  account  ? 
—  Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in 
him? 

Doc.     Do  you  mark  that  ? 

L.  Macb.  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife :  where  is  she  now  ?  —  What, 
will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean  ?  —  No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that  : 
you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doc.     Go  to,  go  to  !  you  have  known  what  you  should  not. 

Gen.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am  sure  of  that :  Heaven 
knows  what  she  has  known. 

L.  Macb.  H-ere  's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still  :  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia 
will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand.     Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  ! 

Doc.     What  a  sigh  is  there  !  the  heart  is  sorely  cliarged. 

Gen.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom,  for  the  dignity  of  the 
whole  body. 

Doc.     Well,  well,  well,  — 

Gen.     Pray  God,  it  be,  sir. 

Doc.  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice  :  yet  I  have  known  those  which 
walked  in  their  sleep,  who  have  died  liolily  in  tlicir  beds. 

L.  Macb.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  night-gown  ;  look  not  so  pale  :  — 
I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo  's  buried  ;  he  cannot  come  out  of  his  grave. 

Doc.     Even  so  ? 

L.  Macb.  To  bed,  to  bed  !  there  's  knocking  at  the  gate.  Come,  come, 
come,  come  !  give  me  your  hand.  What  'a  done  cannot  be  undone  :  to  bed, 
to  bed,  to  bed  1  {Exit  Lady  Macbeth. 


THE   CONCORD   HYMN.  431 

Doc.     Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ? 

Oen.     Directly. 

Doc.     Foul  whisperings  are  abroad.     Unnatural  deeds 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles  :  infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets. 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician.  — 
God,  God,  forgive  us  all !  Look  after  her  ; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her  :  —  so,  good-night. 
My  mind  she  has  mated,  and  amazed  my  sight : 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Shakespeart, 

WORLD-STRANGENESS. 

Strange  the  world  about  me  lies,  never  yet  familiar  grown,  — 
Still  disturbs  me  with  surprise,  haunts  me  like  a  face  half  known. 
In  this  house  with  starry  dome,  floored  with  gem-like  plains  and  seas, 
Shall  I  never  feel  at  home,  never  wholly  be  at  ease  ? 

On  from  room  to  room  I  stray,  yet  ray  Host  can  ne'er  espy; 
And  I  know  not  to  this  day  whether  guest  or  captive  I. 
So  between  the  starry  dome  and  the  floor  of  plains  and  seas 
I  have  never  felt  at  home,  never  wholly  been  at  ease. 

William  Watson. 


THE   CONCORD   HYMN. 

By  the  rude  bridge  tLat  arched  the  flood. 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood. 

And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept  ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleejw  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creep9. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream. 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone, 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem. 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free  ! 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee.  Sm4rt<Hy 


432  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

In  the  far  North  stands  a  Pine-tree,  lone,  upon  a  wintry  height  { 
It  sleeps  :  around  it  snows  have  thrown  a  covering  of  white. 
It  dreams  forever  of  a  Palm  that,  far  i'  the  Morning-land, 
Stands  silent  in  a  most  sad  calm  midst  heaps  of  burning  sand. 
F)rom  Heine.  LaMer. 

IDENTITY. 

Somewhere  — in  desolate  wind-swept  space  — 
In  Twilight  land  —  in  No-man's  land  — 
Two  hungry  Shapes  met  face  to  face. 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ? "  cried  one,  agape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 

"I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 

"  I  only  died  last  night  I " 

r.  B.  Aldrich. 


MY  REST. 


Round  yon  snowy  house  green  woods  dream  ; 

'Twixt  the  giant  boughs  moonbeams  stream. 

Ah  !  fain  I  'd  adore  ev'ry  tree  ; 

Here  dreamt  I  of  yore  liappily. 

All  my  many  songs  found  I  here, 

'Mid  thy  branches  heard,  woodland  dear  1 

In  my  tiny  room,  vine  entwin'd. 

Can  I  those  sweet  thoughts  once  more  find  ? 

Here  the  Rhine  like  to  silv'ry  band. 

Like  to  sunbeam,  flows  o'er  the  land. 

Wind,  which  'mid  green  boughs  o'er  me  blows, 

Once  thy  lullaby  brought  repose. 


Carmen  Sylva, 


L'ESPiSRANCE. 

Only  a  brave  old  maple, 

Shorn  of  its  scarlet  and  gold, 

And  traced  in  the  scroll  of  sunset 
As  a  handwriting  —  black  and  bold. 

A  low,  wailing  wind  frets  the  branches, 
The  dead  leaves  start  up  in  surprise, 

Till,  in  the  hush  of  tlie  gloaming. 
The  dryad's  sad  monody  dies. 


THE    RETURN    OF   THE    SWALLOWS.  433 

O  desolate  tree  in  the  meadow, 

With  pleading  hands  stretched  to  the  sky  1 
Do  you  know  the  glad  hopes  of  the  springtide 

Asleep  in  your  folded  arms  lie  ? 

And  never  a  breath  of  the  storm -king, 

And  never  a  waft  of  the  snow, 
Can  snatch  the  frail  bud  Trom  its  casket. 

Or  loose  the  firm  anchor  below  ? 

'Bide  patiently,  then,  the  bleak  winter. 

And  change  the  sad  wail  to  a  song  : 
Bear  up,  for  the  robins  and  bluebirds 

And  south  winds  are  coming  ere  long. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Low  hanging  in  a  cloud  of  bnrnisht'd  gold. 

The  sleepy  sun  lay  dreaming  ; 
And  where,  pearl-wrought,  the  Orient  gates  unfold, 

Wide  ocean  realms  were  gleaming. 
Within  the  night  he  rose  and  stole  away, 

And,  like  a  gem  adorning, 
Blazed  o'er  the  sea  upon  the  breast  of  day,  — 

And  everywhere  was  morning. 


Eugene  Field, 


THE  RETURN  OF  THII  SWALLOWS. 

**  Out  in  the  meadows  the  young  grass  springs, 
Shivering  with  sap,"  said  the  larks,  "and  we 

Shoot  into  air  with  our  strong  young  wings, 
Spirally  up  over  level  and  lea  ; 

Come,  0  Swallows,  and  fly  with  us, 

Now  that  horizons  are  luminous  ! 

Evening  and  morning  the  world  of  light. 
Spreading  and  kindling,  is  infinite  !  " 

Far  away,  by  the  sea  in  the  south. 
The  hills  of  olive  and  slopes  of  fern 

Whiten  and  glow  in  the  sun's  long  drouth. 
Under  the  heavens  that  beam  and  burn ; 

And  all  the  swallows  were  gathered  there 

Flitting  about  in  the  fragrant  air, 

And  heard  no  sound  from  the  larks,  but  flew 
Flashing  under  the  blinding  blue. 


434  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  their  soft  rich  throaff 
Languidly  fluted  the  thrushes,  and  said 

"  Musical  thought  in  the  mild  air  floats, 
Spring  is  coming  and  winter  is  dead  ! 

Come,  0  Swallows,  and  stir  the  air, 

For  the  buds  are  all  bursting  unaware, 

And  the  drooping  eaves  and  the  elm-trees  long- 
To  hear  the  sound  of  your  low  sweet  song. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  white  Algiers, 

Flashingly  shadowing  the  bright  bazaar. 
Flitted  the  swallows,  and  not  one  hears 

The  call  of  the  thrushes  from  far,  from  far ; 
Sighed  the  thrushes  ;  then,  all  at  once. 
Broke  out  singing  the  old  sweet  tones,  — 

Singing  the  bridal  of  sap  and  shoot. 

The  tree's  slow  life  between  root  and  fruit. 

But  just  when  the  dingles  of  April  flowers 

Shine  with  the  earliest  daffodils. 
When,  before  sunrise,  the  cold  clear  hours 

Gleam  with  a  promise  that  noon  fulfils,  — 
Deep  in  the  leafage  the  cuckoo  cried. 
Perched  on  a  spray  by  a  rivulet-side, 

"  Swallows,  0  Swallows,  come  back  again 

To  swoop  and  herald  the  April  rain." 

And  something  awoke  in  the  slumbering  neart 

Ot  the  alien  birds  in  their  African  ait, 
And  they  paused,  and  alighted,  and  twittered  apart. 

And  met  in  the  broad  white  dreamy  square  ; 
And  the  sad  slave  woman,  who  lifted  u^ 
From  the  fountain  lier  broad-lipped  earthen  cup. 

Said  to  herself,  with  a  weary  sigh, 

"  To-morrow  the  swallows  will  northward  fly  ! " 

Edmund  Williant,  Qosse. 


AMONG  THE  ROCKS. 

Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  Earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !     How  he  sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i*  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth  ; 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  tlie  sea-lark  twitters  sweet  f 


DESTRUCTION    OF   THE   CARNATIC.  485 

That  is  the  doctrine,  siini)le,  ancient,  true  ; 

Such  is  life's  tiial,  as  old  Earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love. 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you  : 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes  I 

Give  Earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above  I 

Browning. 


DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  CARNATIC, 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  fouud  that  he  had  to  do  with  men  who 
either  would  sign  no  convention,  or  whom  no  treaty  and  no  signature 
conld  bind,  and  who  were  the  determined  enemies  of  human  intercourse 
itself,  he  decreed  to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these  incorrigible 
and  predestinated  criminals  a  memorable  example  to  mankind.  He 
resolved,  in  the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious  of  such  things,  to 
leave  the  whole  Carnatic  an  everlasting  monument  of  vengeance,  and  to 
put  perpetual  desolation  as  a  barrier  between  him  and  those  against 
whom  the  faith  which  holds  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together 
was  no  protection. 

...  He  drew  from  every  (j^uarter  whatever  a  savage  ferocity  could 
add  to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  art  of  destruction;  and  compounding 
all  the  materials  of  fury,  havoc,  and  desolation  into  one  black  cloud,  he 
hung  for  a  while  on  the  declivities  of  the  mountains.  Whilst  the  au- 
thors of  all  these  evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on  this  menacing 
meteor,  which  blackened  all  their  horizon,  it  suddenly  burst,  and  poured 
down  the  whole  of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of  the  Carnatic. 

Then  ensued  a  scene  of  woe,  the  like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no 
heart  conceived,  and  of  which  no  tongue  can  adequately  tell.  All  the 
horrors  of  war  before  known  or  heard  of  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc. 
A  storm  of  universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  consumed  every  house, 
destroyed  every  temple.  The  miserable  inhabitants,  flying  from  their 
flaming  villages,  in  part  were  slaughtered;  others,  without  regard  to 
sex,  to  age,  to  the  respect  of  rank  or  sacredness  of  function,  —  fathers 
torn  from  cliildren,  husbands  from  wives,  enveloped  in  a  whirlwind  of 
cavalry,  and  anudst  the  goading  spears  of  drivers  and  the  trampling  of 
pursuing  horses,  —  were  swept  into  captivity  in  an  unknown  and  hostile 
land.  Those  who  were  able  to  evade  this  tempest  fled  to  the  walled 
cities  ;  but  escaping  from  fire,  sword,  and  e-dle,  they  fell  into  the  jaws 
of  famine.  ...  So  completely  did  these  masters  of  their  art  —  Hyder  All 
and  his  more  ferocious  son  —  absolve  themselves  of  their  impious  vow, 
that,  when  the  British  armies  traversed,  as  they  did,  the  Carnatic  for  hun« 


436  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

dreds  of  miles  in  all  directions,  through  the  whole  line  of  their  march 
they  did  not  see  one  man,  not  one  woman,  not  one  child,  not  one  four- 
footed  beast  of  any  description  whatever.  One  dead,  uniform  sQence 
reigned  over  the  whole  region.  Burke. 


There  's  one  great  bunch  of  stars  in  heaven 

That  shines  so  sturdily, 
Where  good  Saint  Peter's  sinewy  hand 

Holds  up  the  dull  gold-wroughten  key. 

And  also  there  's  a  little  star 
So  white,  a  virgin's  it  must  be,  — 

Perhaps  the  lamp  my  love  in  heaven 
Hangs  out  to  light  the  way  for  me. 


TheopMle  Maraial*. 


THE  DEPARTURE. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 

And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star. 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn.  .  .  . 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent  bark. 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  chaiige. 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark, 

"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where?" 
"  Oh,  seek  my  father's  court  with  me. 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Thro'  all  the  world  sh**  follow'd  hiin. 
The  Day-Dream.  Ttnnyitn. 


ITTLUS. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

0  Earth,  what  changes  liast  thou  seen  1 

There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 
The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 

They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 
Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 


487 


ITYLUS. 


Swallow,  my  sister,  0  sister  swallow. 

How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring  ? 
A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 
■\Vhat  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow  ? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thy  heart  to  sing? 
"What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed  ? 

0  swallow,  sister,  0  fair  swift  swallow. 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south,  — 
The  soft  south,  whither  thine  heart  is  set  ? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow  ? 

Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy  mouth? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I  forget  ? 

Sister,  my  sister,  0  fleet  sweet  swallow, 

Thy  way  is  long  to  the  sun  and  the  south  ; 

But  I,  fulfilled  of  my  heart's  desire, 

Shedding  my  soug  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 

From  tawny  body  and  sweet  small  mouth 

Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire. 

I,  the  nightingale,  all  spring  through, 
0  swallow,  sister,  0  changing  swallow,^ 
All  spring  through,  till  the  spring  be  done. 
Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the  dew,  — 
Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds  follow. 
Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 

0  sweet  stray  sister,  0  shifting  swallow, 
The  heart's  division  divideth  us. 
Thy  heart  is  light  as  a  leaf  of  a  tree, 
But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow, 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 
The  feast  of  Daulis,  the  Thracian  Sea. 


438  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS 

0  swallow,  sister,  0  rapid  swallow, 
I  pray  thee  swing  not  a  little  space. 
Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet  ? 
The  woven  web  that  was  plain  to  follow, 
The  small  slain  body,  the  flower-like  face, 
Can  I  remember  if  thou  forget  ? 

O  sister,  sister,  thy  first  begotten  ! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow, 
The  voice  of  the  child's  blood  ciying  yet, 
"  "Who  hath  remembered  me  ?  who  hath  forgotten  5  " 
Thou  hast  forgotten,  0  summer  swallow, 
But  the  world  shall  end  when  I  forget. 


SONG. 


SwinburM 


I  DREAMED  that  I  woke  from  a  dream,  and  the  house  was  full  of  light ; 

At  the  window  two  angel  Sorrows  held  back  the  curtains  of  ni^ht. 
The  door  was  wide,  and  the  house  was  full  of  the  morning  wind  ; 
At  the  door  two  armed  warders  stood  silent,  with  faces  blind. 

I  ran  to  the  open  door,  for  the  wind  of  the  world  was  sweet ; 
The  warders  with  crossing  weapons  turned  back  my  issuing  feet. 
I  ran  to  the  shining  windows  — there  the  winged  Sorrows  stood  ; 
Silent  they  held  the  curtains,  and  the  light  fell  through  in  a  flood. 

I  clomb  to  the  highest  window  —  Ah  !  there  with  shadowed  brow 
Stood  one  lonely,  radiant  Sorrow :  and  that,  my  love,  was  thou. 
I  bowed  my  head  before  her,  and  stood  trembling  in  the  light ; 
She  dropped  the  heavy  curtain,  and  the  house  was  full  of  night. 
I^rom.  "WUfrid  CumberTTiede." George  Macdonald. 

LITTLE  BOY  BLTTE. 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 
But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands  ; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust. 
And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 

Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 
And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair  ; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 
Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  ho  said  ; 
"  And  don't  you  make  any  noise  !  " 
So  toddling  off  to  his  trnndle-bed 
He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys. 


PAUL  revere's  ride.  439 

And  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 
jiwk&tined  our  Little  Boy  Blue,  — 
Oh,  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 
But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true  ! 

Aye  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 
Each  in  the  same  old  place,  — 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 
The  smile  of  a  little  face. 

And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  these  long  years  through 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair. 

What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

Eugene  Field 

THE  LAUREL-SEED. 

A  DESPOT  cazed  on  sunnet  clouds,  then  sank  to  sleep  amidst  the  gleam ;  — 
Forthwith,  a  myriad  starving  slaves  must  realize  his  lofty  dream. 
Year  upon  year,  all  night  and  day,  they  toiled,  they  died  —  and  were  replaced  ; 
At  length,  a  marble  fabric  rose,  with  cloud-like  domes  and  turrets  graced. 

No  anguish  of  those  herds  of  slaves  e'er  shook  one  dome  or  wall  asunder. 
Nor  wars  of  other  mighty  Kings,  nor  lustrous  javelins  of  the  thunder. 
One  sunny  morn  a  lonely  bird  passed  o'er,  and  dropt  a  laurel-seed  ; 
The  plant  sprang  up  amidst  the  walls,  whose  chinks  were  full  of  moss  and  weed. 

The  laurei-tree  grew  large  and  strong,  its  roots  went  searching  deeply  down  ; 
It  split  the  marble  walls  of  Wrong,  and  blossomed  o'er  the  Despot's  crown. 
And  in  its  boughs  a  nightingale  sings  to  those  world-forgotten  graves ; 
And  o'er  its  head  a  skvlark's  voice  consoles  the  spirits  of  the  slaves. 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear  of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul 
Revere,  on  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-Five :  hardly  a  man  is  now 
alive  who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend  :  "  If  the  British  march  by  land  or  sea  from  the 
town  to-night,  hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry-arch  of  the  North-Church 
tower,  as  a  signal-light,  — one  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea  ;  and  I  on  the 
opposite  shore  will  be,  ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm  through  every 
Middlesex  village  »od.  farm,  for  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 
Then  he  said  good-niaht.  and  with  muffled  oar  silently  row'd  to  the  Charles- 
town  shore,  iust  aa  taie  moon  rose  over  the  bay,  where  swinging  wide  at  her 
moorings  lay  the  SJoJiterset.  British  man-of-war :  a  phantom  ship,  with  feaci 


440  CLASSIC    SELECTIONS. 

mast  and  spar  across  the  moon,  like  a  prisou-bar,  and  a  huge,  black  hulk, 
that  was  magnified  by  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, wanders  and  watches  with 
eager  ears,  till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears  the  muster  of  men  at  the 
baiTack-door,  the  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet,  and  the  measured 
tread  of  the  grenadiers  marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore.  Then  he 
climb'd  to  the  tower  of  the  church,  up  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
to  the  belfiy-chamber  overhead,  and  startled  the  pigeons  fi-ora  their  perch 
on  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made  masses  and  moving  shapes  of 
shade  ;  up  liietrt'uibling  ladder,  steep  and  tall,  to  the  highest  window  in  the 
wall,  where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down  a  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the 
quiet  town,  and  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead  in  their  night-encampment  on 
the  hill,  wrapp'd  in  silence  so  deep  and  still,  that  he  could  hear,  like  a  sen- 
tinel's tread,  the  watchful  night-wind  as  it  went  creeping  along  from  tent  to 
tent,  and  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well !  "  A  moment  only  he  feels  the 
spell  of  tiie  place  and  the  hour,  the  secret  dread  of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the 
dead  ;  for  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent  on  a  shadowy  something  far 
away,  where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  —  a  line  of  black,  that  bends 
and  floats  on  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride,  booted  and  spuiT'd,  with  a  heavy 
stride  on  the  opposite  shore  walk'd  Paul  Revere.  Now  he  patted  his  horse's 
side,  now  gazed  on  the  landscape  far  and  near,  then  impetuous  stamp'd  the 
earth,  and  turn'd  and  tighten'd  his  saddle-girth ;  but  mostly  he  watch'd 
with  eager  search  the  belfry-tower  of  the  old  North  Church,  as  it  rose  above 
the  graves  on  the  hill,  lonely  and  spectral,  and  sombre  and  still.  And,  lo  ! 
as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height,  a  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns,  but  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full 
on   his  sight,  a  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  bums  ! 

A  huiTy  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street,  a  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in 
the  dark,  and  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark  struck  out  by  a 
steed  that  flies  fearless  and  fleet :  that  was  all !  and  yet,  through  the  gloom 
and  the  light,  the  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night  ;  and  the  spark 
struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight,  kindled  the  land  into  flame  with 
its  heat. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock  when  he  cross'd  the  bridge  into  Medford 
town  ;  he  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  and  the  barking  of  the  farn)er's  dog, 
and  felt  the  damp  of  the  river-fog,  tliat  rises  when  the  sun  goes  down.  It 
was  one  by  the  village  clock  when  be  rode  into  Lexington.  He  .saw  the 
gilded  weathercock  swim  in  the  moonlight  as  be  pass'd,  and  the  meeting- 
house windows,  blank  and  bare,  gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare,  as  if  they 
already  stood  aghast  at  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon.  It  was  two 
by  the  village  clock  when  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town.  He  heard 
the  bleating  of  the  flock,  and  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees,  and  felt 


CHAMOUNI   AT   SUNRISE.  441 

the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze  blowing  over  tlie  meadows  brown.  And  one 
waa  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed  who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall,  who 
that  day  would  be  lying  dead,  pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.  In  the  books  you  have  read  how  the  British  regulars 
fired  and  fled  ;  how  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball,  fiom  behind  each 
fence  and  farmyard-wall,  chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane,  then  crossing 
the  fields  to  emerge  again  under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  and  only 
pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ;  and  so  through  the  night  went  hi/ 
cry  of  alarm  to  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  —  a  cry  of  defiance,  and  no* 
of  fear  ;  a  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  word  that  shal* 
echo  forevermore  !  For,  borne  on  the  night  wind  of  the  Past,  through  all 
our  history,  to  the  last,  in  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  ni-ed,  tha 
people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear  the  hurrying  hoof-beat  of  that  steed,  and 
the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Kevere. 

Longfellov. 


CHAMOUNI  AT  SUNRISE.* 

From  the  deep  shadow  of  the  still  fir-groves 
Trembling  I  look  to  thee,  eternal  height ! 
Thou  dazzling  summit,  from  whose  top  my  soul 
Floats,  with  dimmed  vision,  to  the  infinite  ! 

Who  sank  in  earth's  firm  lap  the  pillars  deep 
Which  hold  through  ages  thy  vast  pile  in  place  T 
Who  reared  on  high,  in  the  clear  ether's  vault. 
Lofty  and  strong,  thy  ever-radiant  face  ? 

Who  poured  you  forth,  ye  mountain  torrents  wild, 
Down  thundering  from  eternal  winter's  breast  ? 
And  who  commanded,  with  almighty  voice, 
"Here  let  the  stiffening  billows  find  their  rest "  ? 

Who  points  to  yonder  moming-star  his  path. 
Borders  with  wreaths  of  flowers  the  eternal  frost  ! 
To  whom,  in  awful  music,  cries  the  stream, 
O  wild  Arveiron  !  in  fierce  tumult  tossed  ? 

Jehovah  !  God  !  bursts  from  the  ci'ashing  ice  ; 
The  avalanche  thunders  down  the  steeps  the  call  : 
Jehovah  !  rustle  soft  the  bright  tree-tops, 
Whisper  the  silver  brooks  that  murmuring  fall. 
Translated  by  DwigtU.  Frtdrike  fir%t^ 

1  See  Coleridge's  Hymn,  p.  133. 


442  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Such  a  stai-ved  bank  of  moss  till,  that  May-mom, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across  :  violets  were  born  ! 
Sky  —  what  a  scowl  of  cloud  till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud  :  splendid,  a  star  ! 
World  —  how  it  walled  about  life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out :  that  was  thy  face  I 


Browning 


CONFESSIONS. 


What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears  ?  "  now  that  I  come  to  die. 

Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ?  "  ah,  reverend  sir,  not  1  ! 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again  where  the  physic  bottles  stand 

On  the  table's  edge,  —  is  a  suburb  lane,  with  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do,  from  a  house  you  could  descry 

O'er  the  garden  wall  :  is  the  curtain  blue  or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 

To  mine  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather  blue  above  lane  and  wall; 

And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "  Ether"  is  the  house  o'ertopping  all. 

At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper,  there  watched  for  me  one  June, 

A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper,  my  poor  mind  is  out  of  tune. 

Only  there  was  a  way  .  .   .  you  crept  close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 

Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except  :  they  styled  their  house  "The  Lodge." 

What  riglit  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane  ?  but,  by  creeping  very  close, 

With  the  good  wall's  help,  —  their  eyes  might  strain  and  stretch  themselves 

to  Oes, 
Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together,  as  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether,"  and  stole  from  stair  to  stair. 
And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.     Alas,  we  loved,  sir  — used  to  m(>et : 

How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  —  but  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 

Browning 


ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE. 

All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strow  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?     Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute  I 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?    So  ! 
Break  the  string  ;  fold  the  music's  wing  ; 
Suppose  Tauline  had  bade  me  sing  ! 


A    TALE. 

My  whole  life  long  I  learnM  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  ait  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion  —  heaven  or  hell  ? 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?     'T  is  well ! 

Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  saj', 

Those  who  win  heaven,  bless'd  are  they  1 


443 


Browning 


A  TALE. 

What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me  once  upon  a  time — 

Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me  !)  was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 

Greek  or  Latin  ?     Greek,  you  said,  while  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 

Anyhow  there  's  no  forgetting  this  much  if  no  more, 

That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting  ! )  yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore. 

Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go,  singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely  sing  but  play  the  Ijtc  ; 

Playing  was  important  clearly  quite  as  singing  :  I  desire, 

Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind  for  a  purpose  that 's  behind. 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention  held  the  judges  round, 

—  Judges  able,  I  should  mention,  to  detect  the  slightest  sound 

Sung  or  played  amiss  r  such  ears  had  old  judges,  it  appears  ! 

None  the  less,  he  sang  out  boldly,  played  in  time  and  tune, 

Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly  each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon, 

Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries  picking  faults  out :  take  the  prize  !  " 

When,  a  mischief  I     Were  they  seven  strings  the  lyre  possessed  ? 

Oh,  and  afterwards  eleven,  thank  youl  Well,  sir,  — who  had  guessed 

Such  ill-luck  in  store  ?  —  it  happed  one  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped 

All  was  lost,  then  !  No  !  a  cricket  (what  "  cicada"  ?    Pooh  ! ) 

— Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket  for  mere  love  of  music  —  flew 

With  its  little  heart  on  fire,  lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 

So  that  when  (Ah  joy  !)  our  singer  for  his  truant  string 

Feels  with  disconcerted  fijiger,  what  does  cricket  else  but  fling 

Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note  wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat  ^ 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending,  cricket  chirps  at  need, 

Executes  the  hand's  intending,  promptly,  perfectly, —  indeed 

Saves  the  singer  from  defeat  with  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges  cry  with  one  assent 

"  Take  the  prize  —  a  prize  who  grudges  such  a  voice  and  instrument  ' 

Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp,  so  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp  t " 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature,  once  its  service  done  ? 
That  'a  no  such  uncommon  feature  in  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent  for  aiding  soul-development. 
No  !  This  other,  on  returning  homeward,  prize  in  hand. 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning  :  (sir,  I  hope  you  understand  !  > 


444  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Said,  "  Some  record  there  must  be  of  this  cricket's  help  to  me  I " 

So,  he  made  himself  a  statue  :  marble  stood,  life-size  ; 

On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you,  perched  his  partner  in  the  prize ; 

Never  more  apart  you  found  her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

That  *s  the  tale  :  its  application  ?    Somebody  I  know 

Hopes  one  day  for  reputation  through  his  poetry  that 's  —  Oh, 

All  so  learned  and  so  wise,  and  deserving  of  a  prize  ! 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket,  when  his  statue  's  built, 

Tell  the  gazer,  " 'T  was  a  cricket  helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 

Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped  softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped  J 

For  as  victory  was  nighest,  while  I  sang  and  played, — 

With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest,  right  alike,  —  one  string  that  made 

'  Love '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain,  never  to  be  heard  again, — 

Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered,  perched  upon  the  place 

"Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered  '  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 

Asked  the  treble  to  atone  for  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 

But  you  don't  know  music  !  Wherefore  keep  on  casting  pearls 

To  a  —  poet  1  All  I  care   for  is  —  to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 

"Love"  comesaptlyin  when  gruff  grows  his  singing.   (There,  enough!) 

ABT  VOGLER. 
[After  he  has  been  extemporizing  upon  the  musical  instrument  of  his  invention .] 

Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work. 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solomon  willed 

Annies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly,  —  alien  of  end  and  of  aim,  , 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep  removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  onoe  as  he  named  the  ineffable  Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he  loved ! 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 

This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  iniix)rtuned  to  raise  ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and  now  combine. 

Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his  praise  ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to  hell, 

Burrow  awhile,  and  bnild  broad  "n  the  roots  of  things. 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace  well, 

Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent  minion  he  was; 

Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  nimpired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass. 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest; 


ABT   VOGLER.  445 

For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 

When  a  great  illuniination  surprises  a  festal  night  — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  si)ace  to  spire) 

Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  j)ride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 

In  sight?    Not  half !  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match  man's  birth; 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I  ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to  reach  the  earth, 

As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the  sky : 
Novel  splendours  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with  mine, 

Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed  its  wandering  star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 

For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near  nor  far. 

Nay,  more  :  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare  and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place  ;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at  last ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the  body  and  gone. 

But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth  their  new  : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now  ;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon  ; 

And  what  is  —  shall  I  say,  matched  both  ?  for  I  was  made  perfect  too. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 

All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly  forth, 
All  through  mnsic  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I  painted  the  whole. 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder- worth  : 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verae,  —  still,  effect  proceeds  from  cause  ; 

Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is  told ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws. 

Painter  and  jwet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list  enrolled  :  — 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them,  and  lo,  they  are  I 
And  1  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  nought ; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world  —  loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  I     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought : 

And,  there  I    Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :  consider  and  bow  the  heaa  1 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared ; 

Gone  1  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too  slow ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  fii-st,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared. 

That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 


446  CLASSIC   SELECTIONS. 

Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :  is  this  your  comfort  to  me  ? 

To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God  :  ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Name  ? 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands  ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same  ? 

Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !     What  was,  shall  live  as  before  ; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  implying  sound  ; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good  more : 

On  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect  round. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist,  — 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself ;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  tliat  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard. 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard  ; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once  :  we  shall  hear  it  by-and-by. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days  ?     Have  we  withered  or  agonized  ? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue  thence  ? 

Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  tliat  harmony  should  be  prized  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear ; 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe  : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear  ; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  :  't  is  we  musicians  know. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me  ;  silence  resumes  her  reign  : 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  ac(juiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor,  — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground. 

Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep  ; 
Which,  hark  !  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is  found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life  .  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 

Robert  Browning, 


fil  82 


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